


Aftermath

by owlmoose



Category: FFX, FFX-2
Genre: Backstory, Between Seasons/Series, Gen, If you only read one work by me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-24
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlmoose/pseuds/owlmoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Operation Mi'ihen, Beclem makes a choice and sees it through. The story of the founding of the Youth League, through Beclem's eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mi'ihen

Awareness returned slowly. Pain first, in his right leg, although aches were to be found in nearly every part of his body. Then touch, the sensation of sand and pebbles beneath his back; was he on a beach? As he mulled this question, his other senses followed: the smell of smoke and the ocean air, the tang of blood in his mouth, and the sounds of crashing waves accompanied by cries of mourning and moans for help -- too many of the former, not enough of the latter, he realized, a cold dread presenting itself at the thought. And, with that, the return of memory, accompanied by sight as Beclem cracked his eyes open to the brilliant blue sky spreading above the Mushroom Rock shore. Odd that such a bright and cheerful sun could shine down on a scene as terrible as the aftermath of Operation Mi'ihen.

"Are you all right?" The concerned face of a healer appeared in his view as she knelt at his side. Beclem opened his mouth to answer, but only a croak came out, and so the healer pulled out a water skin, lifted the Crusader's head, and held the container to his mouth. He took a swallow, then another, then wetted his parched lips with the third mouthful. With the healer's aid, he sat up.

"My leg," he rasped.

"Drink this first," the healer said in the manner shared by all of her profession: gentle but firm, carrying the expectation of absolute obedience. She handed a small bottle to Beclem, who drank the healing potion without argument, feeling his pain recede and more strength return with each swallow. "Better? All right. Now let's look at that leg." She moved to examine the injured limb, and Beclem leaned forward enough to see the gash that ran from the top of his thigh to halfway down his calf. Remembering the Sinspawn encounter that had caused the deep, gaping wound made him slightly queasy.

The healer laid her hands on Beclem's leg and caught his eye. "It's not as bad as it looks," she assured him. "I can heal it cleanly." She began to chant the curative spell and Beclem relaxed, allowing the magic to fill him and make him whole. As the pain receded even further, he gained enough strength to ask the question most on his mind.

"How did we fare? Sin--"

Still focused on her work, the healer shook her head grimly. "We failed," she said. "Can you smell the fire? That's the Al Bhed weapon. Sin turned the energy beam back on its source, and it blew itself up. Everyone inside was killed, along with dozens standing below. Including all the Crusaders lost in the first wave, there are hundreds dead, at least, and Sin escaped without a scratch. Disaster is not too strong a word, I fear." She sighed. "Yevon was right. We should never have joined forces with the Al Bhed."

Beclem tipped his head back and closed his eyes in dismay. Almost as long as he had been with the Crusaders, he had wondered whether experimenting with machina might help in the fight against Sin. He had been one of the most vocal proponents of working with the Al Bhed in general and of Operation Mi'ihen in particular. And now, to learn that all his hopes were in vain, and that so much death had come instead... it was worse than a nightmare.

"There." The healer returned to her professional, no-nonsense demeanor. "You should be able to walk now. Just don't overdo it. No long treks today."

She got to her feet, and Beclem followed, carefully, with a stiff prayer bow. "Thank you," he said. The healer bowed in return, then headed over to her next patient. After testing his leg and finding it serviceable, if still a bit stiff and sore, Beclem set off down the corpse-littered beach, vaguely in the direction of Djose Temple. He didn't really want to look at the carnage, but he forced himself to check every face, searching for fallen friends. He owed them that much. And there was always the hope of finding someone still alive and in need of aid, but today he discovered no miracles. Each body he examined was broken, empty, lifeless. He recognized perhaps a third of these, and for each man or woman he knew he paused a moment longer, bowing his head and murmuring a few words to Yevon, praying for their safe passage to the Farplane.

It was a grim trip, this walk through the rows of the dead. Beclem rested against a boulder for a moment and scanned the bleak scene yet again. Were the Crusaders smashed? Not all of their number had participated in the Operation, but a strong majority had. If most of these had been killed, who would watch over Spira now? Beclem's heart ached as he contemplated all the towns and villages that might go unprotected. The warrior monks would do their best, but they were few, and rarely emerged from the temples. And so many promising fighters went on pilgrimage as Guardians and never returned. It was a noble cause, no question of that, but would more lives be saved in the end if these warriors stayed home to guard their families and neighbors instead of heading off on a so-often futile crusade? Sometimes he wondered.

He shook his head to clear it and began walking again, still brooding. He had talked so many of his colleagues into taking part in this doomed endeavor. While he didn't delude himself into believing that the Operation would never have happened without his influence, he had belonged to the inner circle that hatched the plan and to the group that had first approached the Al Bhed. And he could name at least a dozen people who might be safe in their Crusader lodges if he hadn't convinced them to join in. How much of this debacle could be placed squarely on his shoulders?

It seemed like hours passed, his thoughts consumed by regret and blame and grief, before he spotted a gathering of the living: about half a dozen Crusaders, standing in a knot near the path to Djose. But before he reached them, his attention was caught by the young summoner who had joined them at Mushroom Rock today. She stood at the edge of the water, performing the rite of sending as pyreflies danced around her. Beclem took a moment to watch, to mourn, to feel the weight of every life the colorful lights represented. He stayed there, leaning against the cliff, until she had finished. Once she was done, he didn't move for a moment, keeping his eyes focused on the ocean and the sky, blocking out all else.

"A swift retreat." The words, harsh and angry, cut through the interior haze. "Satisfied?"

Beclem turned in the direction of the voice and was surprised to see Sir Auron, feet firmly planted, glaring at Maester Kinoc. He had heard the rumor that Sir Auron was one of the Lady Summoner's guardians, but he hadn't expected to see the legend in the flesh. Curious, he took a step closer.

"What do you mean?" the maester asked, shifting uncomfortably under the guardian's gaze. Beclem had never seen the normally confident, commanding Kinoc so ill at ease before.

"Those who turned from Yevon died, while the faithful live on." The accusation fell on Beclem's ears and rocked him to his core. He pressed himself back against the cliff wall, the breath shocked out of him, unable to even hear Maester Kinoc's response over the inner turmoil caused by this suggestion and its implications.

The Crusaders who had gone against the teachings, who had allied themselves with the Al Bhed, were dead. Not all of them, but enough that their influence within the organization would be greatly diminished. Those who had stayed behind and rejected the new ways would take total control now. Even if enough of the machina faction had survived, would they ever be taken seriously again? Not likely, not after this.

All that seemed evident enough, but something about the way Sir Auron spoke... had the maesters actually hoped for this mass destruction? Had they perhaps even manipulated the Crusaders into carrying out this plan? Beclem thought back to some of their early discussions, to the first time Kinoc sent a message indicating that he would turn a blind eye to their plot, promising unofficial support despite the official excommunication. They had been so excited that day, so hopeful. Now he growled with disgust. He had been used. All of them had been used. Lives thrown away, and for what? To increase the power and influence of Yevon?

"Beclem?" Jarred from his thoughts and their sudden black turn, he looked up to see Luzzu walking toward him. "Praise Yevon," Luzzu murmured, grabbing his hands tightly. "Praise Yevon you're all right. If you had been killed too..."

"Who?" Beclem asked, studying his friend's bleak expression.

Luzzu shook his head at the ground. "Gatta," he said, softly still. "You remember, I introduced you yesterday? The boy who came with me from Besaid. Just another friend who I talked into enlisting, just another friend who's dead now." He stared down for a few moments longer, a quick spasm of guilt and anger passing over his face. Then he looked back up and his expression was calm, although it might have been a façade, likely to crack sooner or later. "I'm going to Djose Temple with the other survivors. We need to pray, and to atone for our sins. Walk with me?"

Suddenly Beclem realized that he was tired. Tired of death, tired of atonement, tired of following the orders of maesters who didn't care whether he lived or died, tired of the knee-jerk piety that all Spirans were expected to show. What good had it ever brought anyone? "I'm not going to Djose," he announced, crossing his arms. "Or to any other temple. I'm through with Yevon. I want no part of it anymore." Too exhausted and heartsick for discussion, he turned on his heel and began a return trip down the beach, away from Djose, Yevon, and the confusion in Luzzu's eyes.

-x-

The battle had begun in late-morning and had ended just past noon. Beclem had been walking for some hours and now, as he began moving down the Highroad, it was night, the last light fading as it was replaced by the first few evening stars. He was on his way to Luca, his hometown as well as the place he thought might be the least tainted by Yevon's influence, and he was hurrying to the Mi'ihen Travel Agency despite his aching leg. If he could get there before it shut its doors for the night, it would be worth the pain. As he scanned the landscape, his attention was caught by a familiar figure lurching in the distance, coming furtively down the hill, then ducking into some bushes by the side of the road.

Curious, Beclem continued forward. He thought he had recognized the profile through the darkness, and as he approached the place where the man had disappeared, he called out, just loud enough for someone listening closely to hear. "Nooj? Is that you?"

"Beclem," came the soft reply. "You are alone?"

"I am." Beclem parted the bushes before him to see a tall figure pressed against the trunk of a tree, starlight faintly illuminating his face. "What are you doing here? I thought you were with that new Crimson Squad group."

Nooj winced, the brief shudder taking his whole body. "That's over," he said. "The maesters are looking for me, and I need to find refuge. I know it's a great deal to ask, but..."

"It's not," Beclem replied firmly, still under his breath. He wondered how Nooj, a long-time favorite of Crusader Command and Kinoc both, had ended up on the run from the maesters, but this was not the time to ask. "I have parted ways with Yevon. You needn't worry on that account. Come, let's find some shelter." He peered more closely at Nooj; his former comrade didn't seem to be injured, but he looked awful, drawn and exhausted, as though he had recently been through a hell even worse than the one Beclem had just experienced. They both needed a healer, a hot meal, and a real bed. "The Mi'ihen Travel Agency is neutral ground--"

"No!" Startled by the vehemence of the response, Beclem leaned away from Nooj, who had squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his good fist against his leg. After a moment, he opened his eyes and shook his head. "No," he repeated, quieter now, more controlled. "It's not safe for me there. I must go somewhere else."

"All right." Beclem thought for a moment. "The Old Road," he decided. "We're near the fork, and travelers almost never come that way. We should be able to camp there for a day or two, give things a chance to cool off. Come, let me show you." He stuck his head back out of the brush and, seeing no one, stood and motioned Nooj to follow. They made their way down the road and took the turn to the older pathway at the base of the cliff. After a few minutes of walking, Beclem spotted a grove that he thought might make a good campsite, and he led Nooj to it. Neither man spoke as they settled down with their backs to the canyon wall, screened from the front and from above by trees. Nooj leaned his head back and laid his cane across his lap. Beclem nearly sighed with pleasure at the relief of getting the weight off his leg, then began rummaging through his pack. A fire wasn't safe if Nooj were being hunted; they would have to make do without. Fortunate that the night was warm. He pulled out two ration bars and handed one to his companion. Nooj nodded his thanks, then nibbled at it with the care of a starving man who doesn't want too little food to disappear too quickly.

Beclem took a bite and followed it with a swig of water. "Need some?" he asked Nooj, holding out the canteen. Nooj took the offered bottle and swallowed from it. "You have no provisions then?"

Nooj shook his head. "I escaped with little more than the clothes on my back." He took another drink, then handed the canteen back to Beclem. "So. Why are you here, alone?"

Beclem leaned back on his hands and looked up at the stars. "Remember how we always talked about attempting a joint operation with the Al Bhed? It was today, and it failed, utterly. But not just that. I'm beginning to believe that we were set up to fail, by the maesters."

"The maesters?" The moonlight was growing brighter, providing enough light for Beclem to see a deep furrow appear on Nooj's brow. "Tell me more."

And so he did, going back to the early days of plotting Operation Mi'ihen and the first contacts with Kinoc and the Al Bhed, through the events of the day itself, including a recap of the conversation between the maester and Sir Auron.

"So you agree with Sir Auron's implication that Yevon was hoping for a disaster." Nooj looked disgusted. "Damn Bevelle for treating us as nothing more than pawns in their political games! Much the same thing happened to the Crimson Squad. It is a long story, but in the end all they required from us was an exploration of a deadly cave. So deadly that only four of us made it out alive. All the others were killed."

Beclem gaped. "All?!" Nooj had been his only real friend on the Crimson Squad, but several of his acquaintances had been in training with the group. Had he lost even more comrades today?

"All," Nooj said flatly. "I'm still not certain of the true purpose of the organization, but it could not have been to train leaders for the Crusaders. That was no training mission, it was a trap. And we stepped into it far too willingly. The others were good soldiers who deserved better than an ignoble death."

"What of those who escaped with you?"

"They..." Nooj's words trailed off, and he fell silent for a long time. Even in the dim moonlight, Beclem could see his jaw working as he struggled to put together his next words. When he finally spoke, he seemed distracted still. "We... they... we were... separated. I--" He drew his right hand over his face and shuddered again, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he looked up again, bleak eyes peered over his spectacles. "I believe they survived, but I do not expect to see them again. No. Like the Crusaders, the Crimson Squad is destroyed."

All the anger and frustration that Beclem had felt back on the beach came raging back in a fiery rush. If it had not been for the need to hide Nooj, he would have screamed with fury. As it was, he had to clench his jaw until the urge passed. "They used us," he said in an impassioned whisper. "They set us up to be knocked down. They sit back in their comfortable cities and send us out to die. Well, I'm finished with them! All of them. To the fiends with them all! It will never happen again. Not if I have anything to say about it."

He looked to Nooj, hoping for some sort of agreement, but to his surprise the other man had already fallen into a light sleep, head drooping over his chest.

"Guess I'm taking first watch," Beclem muttered to himself, his anger ebbing back to a simmer. It wasn't like Nooj to collapse like this; more evidence he had gone through an ordeal of some sort. Beclem grasped his friend by the shoulders, planning to move him into a more comfortable position, but Nooj brushed away his attempts to help, batting away his hands with a quick frown. Despite everything, Beclem nearly smiled. Same old Nooj, he thought, stubborn and independent even while unconscious. Maybe Yevon had betrayed them all, but some things never changed. He crossed his legs and settled in to wait for morning.

-x-

It had been a long night. Nooj never woke, but he'd slept restlessly, shifting and groaning and even mumbling, although Beclem was never able to resolve the words into anything coherent. Beclem had stayed awake for as long as he could, but sometime around moonset he, too, had drifted off. The sound of chirping birds woke him, and he sat up abruptly, fully alert as he checked their surroundings. All was quiet, and there was no evidence that anyone had even walked past, but he was still annoyed at himself for having fallen asleep. "Sloppy," he murmured.

He stood up and stretched, stiff from battle and a night spent in an awkward position. The wound in his leg throbbed, but it wasn't anything he couldn't bear. Then he turned around to check on Nooj. The other man still slept, propped up against the stone face of the canyon wall, but Beclem could see his eyes twitching beneath their closed lids, and he moaned. Concerned, Beclem knelt to the ground and lightly shook Nooj's shoulder. Nooj jerked away and opened his eyes so wide that they were almost round, his face twisting into an expression of shock. He stared at Beclem: unfocused, confused, mute. For a long second Beclem almost didn't recognize him; it was as though someone else entirely was starting at him through Nooj's eyes.

Then the moment passed. Nooj closed his eyes again and shook his head violently. "What... where am I?" he asked. "What happened?"

"You're near the Mi'ihen Highroad," Beclem answered, keeping his tone calm. Delayed shock after a grueling battle; he recognized the signs and was relieved to be back on familiar ground. Ideally, he would remind Nooj of the previous day's events, but since he still didn't know the details of what had happened, he'd have to skip that part. "You're safe."

Nooj rolled his head around on his shoulders, testing the kinks in his neck and back. "I remember now," he said, voice quiet but steady. "Did I sleep sitting up?"

"Yeah." Beclem got to his feet again. "How are you feeling? Do you still need to avoid the travel agency?"

"I haven't much choice in the matter." Nooj looked down and examined his hands, the machina fingers tightening into a fist.

Beclem nodded. "This is a good campsite if you need to lay low for a few days -- it's well secluded, and I hear water nearby -- but we need real food and some bedding, and the travel agency is really the only place to get that. I don't mind going alone if you'll be okay here for the day."

"Yes, go." Nooj sat up straighter and scooted himself behind the screening stand of trees. "I will be fine."

"Okay. Let me find that water before I go." After checking the road to make sure that no people or fiends were nearby, Beclem exited the small grove and headed for the sound of running water. It took a few minutes and a bit of climbing, but soon he found the small creek. He splashed his face and drank, then filled his canteen. Nooj might be able to make it up here with some difficulty, but not without being seen. So he made his way back to the camp and tossed the canteen into Nooj's lap.

"Thanks," Nooj said, unscrewing the lid and taking a long drink. Once he had finished, he handed the container back to Beclem, who waved him off.

"Keep it," he said. "The shop's not far. I'll get myself another one there."

Nooj seemed on the verge of refusing, but finally he nodded. "All right. Now go. And be careful. I need you in once piece."

Beclem resisted the urge to salute. "The same to you. See you in a few hours."

-x-

The walk to the travel agency took most of the morning and was uneventful. Once there, Beclem had bought his provisions with very little conversation. The bad news from Operation Mi'ihen had already spread, so the mood among the Al Bhed who ran the shop was sober, and no one had felt much like talking. The girl at the counter had contented herself with only a greeting and a warning.

"Be careful," she'd said. "We've had reports of bandits in the area, and some people even got shot yesterday. Don't travel alone if you don't have to." Beclem had thanked her for the advice and wished her well, then left, carrying three days worth of food, some salve for his leg, two bedrolls, and a new canteen. Belly filled with lunch, he trekked back to the campsite and found Nooj sitting quietly. By all appearances, he hadn't even moved.

Beclem sat on the ground to get the weight off his complaining leg, then handing Nooj a small paper sack. "Here."

"What is it?" Nooj asked as he accepted the bag and peered inside.

"An Al Bhed sandwich. Some sort of meat and vegetables cooked into a pocket of bread. A little over-spiced for my tastes, but good. I made a guess that you haven't eaten in awhile, so I got two. I hope they're all right cold."

Nooj pulled out the sandwich and took a quick bite, then another. It was gone in moments. Meanwhile, Beclem pulled up his pants to examine the wound on his leg. The scar was already fading; the healer had done good work. The salve he had purchased was mostly for pain relief. He scooped a small handful from the pot and began to rub it on the offending spot.

"Ugly wound," Nooj commented as he reached into the sack for his second sandwich. "From yesterday?"

"Mm." Beclem worked the calf over with his fingers, the salve soothing both the injury itself and the nearby muscles that had been doing double duty for two days. "Sinspawn. Still, I got off lightly compared to so many."

Nooj drank from his canteen, then began eating the sandwich, more slowly this time. "Who?" he asked between bites.

Beclem shook his head. "If I started listing off names, the sun would set before I had finished. Even those who lived are lost to Yevon. Luzzu was there and made it through, but another friend from Besaid died -- a new recruit, you wouldn't know him, he was just a kid -- and I think it broke him. When we parted ways, he and most of the other survivors were making ready to run off to Djose to beg forgiveness. Forgiveness! From the maesters who sent them to be slaughtered!" Gorge rising again, he turned his head and spat his disgust into the dirt.

"We have been played for fools," Nooj said, a bitter undercurrent to his tone. Beclem looked over to his friend and saw the resolve set on his face. "But no more! Never again. I will oppose them, Beclem. We will find the others and we will make them see that Bevelle's treachery must not stand."

Beclem nodded solemnly. "Whatever you choose to do, you know that I am with you."

Nooj reached out a hand, and Beclem shook it. They held the firm grip for a long moment, and then Nooj withdrew. "You should get some sleep," he said. "I can take watch for the rest of the day."

"You're sure?" Beclem asked. Nooj looked stronger than he had even this morning, his color better and his eyes less bleak, but he still didn't seem fully himself.

In answer, Nooj hauled himself to his feet, using his cane and the cliff wall for balance. "I've let you do all the work for long enough. And you're injured. You need your rest."

"Fine. Thank you." The salve had helped, but Beclem knew he had pushed the leg beyond its limits, and only sleep would really heal him now. "Are you armed? They told me at the Travel Agency that there are bandits about."

Nooj pulled a knife from a hidden pocket with his good hand and flipped it in his palm. "With this," he said.

Beclem raised an eyebrow. "A knife, against fiends and bandits? Not even Nooj the Undying is that good." Nooj snorted softly at the hated nickname; Beclem smiled, then pulled a pistol and holster from his pack. "Here, take my extra sidearm."

Nooj cast a sidelong glance at the gun and made no move to reach for it. "Thank you, but no."

"Don't tell me that you of all people are squeamish about machina all of a sudden. Come on, you at least need to carry a backup." Beclem shook the weapon at Nooj, who stared at it for another long moment, his expression wary, as if he expected the gun to explode in his face. Finally, reluctantly, he took the holster from Beclem's hand and fastened it around his waist, never touching the pistol itself. He turned away and looked out onto the roadway from behind the safety of the largest tree.

Satisfied, Beclem capped the salve jar, straightened his pants leg, pulled the pillow out of his new bedroll, and settled down. He was fast asleep within moments.

-x-

For two days, Beclem and Nooj camped in the stand of trees off to the side of the Oldroad. Except for a few surprise fiend incursions, it was a peaceful time, and Beclem appreciated the chance to rest in quiet solitude. Nooj, too, seemed to benefit from the downtime. He and Beclem had been friends for many years; they had joined the Crusaders at the same time, going through their training together and then pulling assignments to the same unit. They'd had one another's backs during many battles, up to and including the one that had cost Nooj his limbs. After that, they had been separated as Nooj recuperated and then started taking on special assignments. It had been many months since they had really spoken, and Beclem found himself enjoying this opportunity to renew their acquaintance, although Nooj, never particularly talkative, had been even more silent than usual these past few days. Their third night at the campsite, Beclem realized why as he told the harrowing tale of the Crimson Squad's destruction over dinner.

They had taken their chances with a campfire that evening, and its flickering light cast sharp shadows across Nooj's face as he talked about forced marches through the Bikanel desert, the horrific experience at the cave, and being turned on at the last by warrior monks. The haunted look was back, and he stumbled over his words a few times near the end. When he finished, he closed his eyes and sighed, a terse and weary sound. "My apologies," he murmured. "I was perhaps not as ready to talk about this as I thought."

"It's all right," Beclem replied. "What a nightmare."

Nooj nodded but did not respond, idly picking up a twig and tossing it into the fire, eyes glued to the small shower of sparks that shot into the air, then drifted away like pyreflies. Beclem let the silence hang between them; he had no words of wisdom or consolation to share. He had been in losing battles and he had seen friends die, but not even Operation Mi'ihen was a massacre of the magnitude of the one Nooj had just lived through. Best to let him mourn and recover in his own time.

Finally, Nooj shifted his position and raised his face, looking Beclem in the eye once more. "We need to get out of this place," he said. "I've sat and waited for them to find me long enough."

Beclem nodded. "I've been thinking about our next move. If the Crusaders were still stationed there in any numbers, I would have said let's take our chances at Mushroom Rock. But I doubt many are left, and anyone still there is probably puppet to the Maesters. I think Luca is a safer bet -- further from Yevon's influence than any other large settlement on Spira, and now that blitz season has started it's easier to get lost in the crowds."

Nooj glanced down at his leg with a derisive snort. "As though I could disappear anywhere."

"You'd be surprised," Beclem countered. "They're all so wrapped up in blitz, no one pays much attention to politics. I think we'll be fine once we arrive, but getting there in the first place might be a problem." He tapped a finger against his leg, thinking of how best to suggest the idea that had been brewing for the last few hours. Finally he decided the only way was to just blurt it out. "Can you still ride a chocobo?"

Nooj arched an eyebrow. "I haven't tried. Have you forgotten how much I hate those things?"

"I remember." Beclem spread his hands in defensive apology. "But it might take three days to walk to Luca. If we rode hard, we could get there in one."

With a sigh, Nooj nodded. "I suppose I ought to make the attempt, then. But how would we acquire them?"

"Rent them from the Travel Agency. They had a full pen when I was there the other day, and I think I have enough money for two." Beclem shot Nooj a sharp glance. "Do you think it's safe for you there yet?"

"I hope so," Nooj muttered. His machina hand twitched into a fist as he looked into the night sky. "We can't avoid it if we're going to Luca in any case."

"It would be difficult," Beclem agreed. "Perhaps possible, though, if I were to go there alone, get both chocobos and bring them back here. Although..." He cast a doubtful eye over Nooj as he wondered whether it would be possible for the other man to mount one of the large birds without serious assistance, and whether he would be punched in the face if he dared to ask.

Nooj sighed again, with more than a little irritation this time. "Out with it," he said. "If we're going to work together, you'll have questions about what I can and cannot do. I'd rather you ask than make assumptions, shelter me from your doubts, or stare at me in that awkward fashion. All right?"

Beclem nodded with a wry grin. "Of course. All right. Yes, I am concerned about your ability to get up on a chocobo. At the Travel Agency, you'd get plenty of assistance, but you'd also be attracting attention to yourself. What do you think best?"

"Hm." Nooj glanced around the campsite. "It will be all right here, I think. Just make sure they give you a bird that's strong enough to bear my weight. The machina are heavier than they look."

"Good point." Beclem stood, bucket in hand to douse the campfire. "We'd best get to sleep, then. I'll leave for the inn at first light."

"Thank you." Nooj backed off from the plume of smoke that rose from the ashes, then stood up from the fallen tree trunk that served as his perch. "Shall I take the watch, then?" He walked to the edge of camp without waiting for an answer, taking his place with one hand balanced against a tree and the other gripping the head of his cane. Only the tightness of that grip and a stern set to his shoulders betrayed any emotion, but Beclem could see that his friend was worried. About tomorrow's ride, about passing the Travel Agency, about finding shelter in Luca?

There was no point in speculating, Beclem decided. Nooj would talk about his concerns, or he wouldn't. The best way to help him was to get him to the city in one piece, and the best way to ensure that was to get some sleep now. After turning over the coals one last time, he settled down into his bedroll and closed his eyes.

-x-

"That was fast." Nooj lurched into a standing position and shaded his eyes against the morning sun that poured in over the canyon walls.

Beclem pulled up on the reins of his chocobo as it came to a halt by the stand of trees. "Stop, right there, that's a good girl," he said, patting the bird on its downy cheek. He dismounted, then unfastened the second chocobo's lead from the saddle as he responded to Nooj's remark. "They gave us some good mounts. I mentioned the weight issue, and your lack of agility, and they claim that this fellow is both hardy and exceptionally patient." He handed Nooj the reins of his chocobo with a chuckle. "I may have implied that you were my overweight arthritic grandfather."

"Many thanks," Nooj replied, not bothering to conceal the sarcasm in his words or his revulsion for the bird as he took the straps of leather in his good hand. Beclem would have laughed again if he hadn't known it would likely mean a black eye -- the first time Nooj had ever ridden a chocobo, early in their Crusader training, the bird had spooked and thrown him, dumping him into the Moonflow in front of the whole company, and then run away squawking. Chocobos were generally docile and so Nooj had taken a bit of teasing. He had been inclined to blame the entire species and went to great lengths to avoid riding after that.

After successfully smothering his smile, Beclem moved to the male chocobo's head. "You ready to go?" Nooj nodded, and Beclem leaned in close to the bird, making soft clucking noises followed by a few words in Al Bhed. With a cheery chirp, the chocobo leaned over, dropping its head almost to the ground and dipping its knees. Together, these actions lowered its back by almost a foot, and Nooj let out a barking laugh.

"I'll be damned," he said. "I didn't know they could do that."

"The ones trained for the Knights can't," Beclem replied, allowing himself a grin. "But the ones used by the Al Bhed for travel need to be able to carry people who aren't in perfect fighting shape, so they're much more tolerant and flexible. Do you need a hand?"

"Just be prepared to pick me up." Nooj's shoulders set with grim determination as he hobbled over to the chocobo, standing on its left side. He planted his cane in the dirt, tested the stability of the machina leg, and then with surprising swiftness hooked his good leg over the saddle, stuck his foot in the stirrup, grasped the horn with his right hand, and hauled himself into place. For a moment Beclem thought he might over-balance and topple over the other side of the chocobo, but he regained his seat with a shout and slapped the chocobo lightly on the flank, cursing under his breath as it rose into standing position.

"Everything all right?" Beclem asked as he handed Nooj the cane that had fallen to the ground.

"Fine." Nooj secured the cane on the horn of his saddle, then gathered up the reins again, holding both in his right hand, pulling up a little as the chocobo pranced in place, clearly eager to be off. "Can we get this over with?"

Beclem hopped onto his mount. "Of course. With some luck, we'll be in Luca by nightfall. I know an inn at the outskirts where they don't ask too many questions. Then tomorrow we can start looking for a place to get you settled longer-term."

Nooj nodded, then cast Beclem a serious look. "I appreciate your assistance. You have helped me far beyond the call of duty, or even friendship."

"How could I have done less?" Beclem replied. "Just tell me that I haven't gone to all this effort for nothing." He stared at Nooj, holding the other man's eyes; first he saw surprise, then a flash of anger and a clenched jaw. Their gazes stayed locked for another few seconds, until Nooj looked away with a grunt.

"We'll see," he muttered, and then with a flick of the reins and a light jab in the side with his boot, he set the chocobo on its way to the Highroad and to Luca, Beclem following close behind.


	2. Luca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In times of change and uncertainty, sometimes it's best to lay low at home.

Beclem pulled back on the reins of his chocobo as they reached the edge of the cliff. The light of the setting sun poured over the streets of Luca and the crowds exiting the blitzball stadium. Nooj guided his mount up to Beclem's side and stared out over the city. "So, now what?"

"This way." Beclem turned his chocobo to the right, away from the Highroad and the stairs that led to the central courtyard of the city. Nooj followed behind him, and the comfortable silence that had ridden with them all day fell once more. It had been a long ride, and hard -- they had stopped only twice, to feed and water the chocobos and to grab a quick bite themselves. But it had been worth it, to reach Luca by nightfall. After another ten minutes, they came to a grouping of dilapidated buildings that perched at the top of the cliff.

Beclem turned in his saddle and nodded at Nooj. "We're here." He dismounted from his bird, then held the bridle of Nooj's mount so he could do the same.

Nooj looked around at the weathered wood of the buildings and the steep street that led down the cliff's face and into an area of town that looked dark, dank, and not particularly welcoming. "And here would be..."

"Near the docks." Beclem patted his chocobo on the neck, then gathered up the reins for both birds and, with a cluck of his tongue, pulled them into a nearby pen. "Not the docks that serve the blitz stadium, tourists, and military, but the shipping docks. Where the rest of Luca's business gets done." He indicated the nearest building with his chin. "This inn isn't the fanciest place in Spira, but it's clean, and you'll be safe here. C'mon."

Once he had finished securing the chocobos, he went inside. He could hear Nooj behind him, uneven steps and the click of the cane. He approached the young woman at the counter with a polite nod; Nooj faded back into a corner of the lobby, hiding in the shadows to take the most defensible position in the room. "Any rooms available tonight?"

"Yeah. One or two? How long you need 'em?"

"Two, if you have them. One just for tonight, the other for at least a week."

She glanced down at the ledger that lay open on the countertop. "Yeah. We can do that. You want dinner sent up? Bar's open all night, but the kitchen's closin' in about an hour."

Beclem glanced over at Nooj, who shifted warily. "We'll order up."

"Okay. Rooms Five and Twelve; whoever's stayin' longer should take Twelve. Got it?"

Beclem counted out the gil for their first night's lodgings with a nod. "Yes. Thank you."

"Sure." She shrugged as she handed him the keys. "Have a good night."

He went to rejoin Nooj and held out a key. "Home sweet home. At least for a week. I was going to get dinner from the tavern; any requests?"

Nooj closed his hand around the key. "As long as there's fresh meat that I didn't have to hunt and clean myself, I don't care."

Beclem snorted. "I hear you there. All right. I'll tell them to bring something up. See you in the morning." And with that, Beclem went to place an order, cheered at the prospect of a real hot meal and his first comfortable bed in weeks.

-x-

The next morning, Beclem made his way back to the tavern for breakfast and gossip. Once he had filled up on both, he went to Nooj's room and knocked on the door. "It's me."

After a moment, the bolt slid free and Nooj pulled the door open just enough to peer out. "What do you want?"

Beclem held up the tray he carried. "I brought food, and news." Nooj stepped back, and Beclem followed him into the room. There was a small table and two chairs in the corner, and Beclem took the seat furthest from the bed. Nooj selected a piece of fruit from the tray and then sat, looking at his friend, impassive, waiting.

"So." Beclem poured himself a cup of coffee and sipped from it. "Word of the Operation's failure has already spread pretty much everywhere. Seems like everyone is taking the party line and blaming the decision to use machina and work with the Al Bhed. The general feeling is that the Crusaders are all but finished."

Nooj looked out the narrow window. "So. Even if I were no longer hunted..."

Beclem's answering nod was grim. "There wouldn't be anything to go back to."

They sat in silence and digested this new reality for a short time; then Nooj turned to look at Beclem again. "What other news?"

"Just gossip and rumor. Crusader Command hasn't been heard from, and no one knows what to make of that."

"No official statement?" Nooj leaned forward, brow furrowed as Beclem shook his head. "What of Yevon?"

Beclem laughed without mirth. "About what you would expect. The usual platitudes about honoring the sacrifice of the dead and praying for a Final Summoning to bring us the Calm, with bonus warnings about machina and the Al Bhed. Nothing about the Crimson Squad, at all -- no one I asked had even heard of it. It's like they're trying to sweep the whole thing under the carpet."

Nooj dropped the pit of his peach into a bowl with a clatter. "Figures," he grunted. "Only deaths that advance their political aims will be mourned in public."

"Exactly." Beclem set down his mug. "So. You have this room for the rest of the week at least. Will you want to stay in the city? If so, I can find you more permanent lodging. But if you'd rather disappear elsewhere, I can help arrange that, too."

"I'll need to think about it." Nooj stood with the aid of his cane and limped over to the window. "Staying put would probably be safest; I'm tempted to go home to Kilika, but with the temple there-- What is it?"

At the mention of Kilika, Beclem had taken a sharp breath. "Kilika. You can't go back, at least not right now. I guess being off in training you didn't hear..."

Nooj's hand drifted up to the window frame and gripped it hard. "Sin." He didn't bother to wait for a confirmation. "How long ago? How bad?"

"Not quite two weeks." Beclem bowed his head. "Bad. According to the reports we got, the damage and death toll were both substantial. I'm sorry."

"Ah." Nooj nodded and turned his gaze out the window. "Well. We will rebuild. That's what we do, after all. Sin tears it down and we build anew. Of course, then Sin just comes back to wipe it all away again." His knuckles whitened, and his next words were muttered under his breath. "And they wondered why I want out of it."

Beclem said nothing; he was never sure how to react when his friend started talking this way. The silence stretched to fill several more awkward moments, until Beclem turned and left the room without another word, leaving Nooj alone with whatever dark thoughts were consuming him.

-x-

Beclem strode through the narrow back streets that led into the residential neighborhoods of Luca, each step taking him closer to familiar ground. He had spent his childhood exploring these alleyways, tossing the blitzball with his brother and their friends. Reaching the four-story building that had been his childhood home, he paused, then walked up the stairs to the third floor and rapped on the door.

It opened almost immediately to reveal his mother, her jaw falling open, her eyes filling with tears. Then she threw her arms around him and pulled him back with her into the apartment. "You're alive!" He could barely make out the words through her sobs as she clung to him. "I heard-- I thought--"

"I'm fine." Beclem patted her shoulders and hugged her in return.

She stepped back and framed his face with her hands, staring up at him with blue eyes still bright with emotion. "You're sure? No serious injuries or--"

"I'm fine," he repeated. "Took a wound in my leg but that was the worst of it, and it healed well."

She patted his cheeks, then took him by the hand and led him to the couch. "It's a miracle. I almost think I must be dreaming that you survived, after all the awful stories I heard... are they true?"

Beclem nodded. "It was terrible. The most devastating battle I've ever seen." Suddenly he wished he were a young boy again, small enough to curl up in his mother's arms and let her hold him and soothe all the pain and bad memories away.

"I'm so sorry." She squeezed his hand, her eyes still glittering. "But oh, you can't know how relieved I am right now. Praise Yevon you're all right."

"Yevon had nothing to do with it." Something twisted inside him, the casual prayer reminding him of Yevon's betrayal. Part of him knew he should just let it go, but the rage boiled up once again, an unstoppable force drowning out any other impulse. "If anything, we should be blaming Yevon for the deaths instead of thanking them for the luck that allowed a few of us to escape."

Her jaw dropped open. "Beclem! Such an awful thing to say. The teachings..."

"Fiends take the teachings!" Beclem dropped his mother's hand and stood. "I'm done with them, and with the temples. Spira would be better off without them."

"How dare you?" Shock and hurt crept into her eyes. "Only Yevon and the summoners stand between us and Sin. Surely you see that now, after the failure of the Al Bhed and their forbidden weapons."

"Our _failure _was in trusting the maesters to protect us and stand with us." His hands balled into fists as he turned away. Even his mother, never particularly devout, was a dupe of Yevon in the end. Had the world really been so completely fooled? Could no one see the truth besides himself and Nooj? He stalked toward the door, unable to stand another minute in these rooms. Shaking off the gentle hand that fell on his arm, he walked out and let the door fall closed behind him.

-x-

He found himself in a blitzer pub, a bowl of soup in front of him and a glass of ale in his hand, wondering what to do next. But he didn't have long to wonder as a familiar voice called from across the room. He looked up and turned in his seat. "Graav?"

"It is you!" Graav slid onto the stool next to him at the bar and held out a hand to shake, and Beclem took it with a smile. "We heard about the Crusaders. Zalitz has been going crazy with worry."

"As you can see, I made it out alive. How are you? Zalitz still in the second string?" He hoped the change of subject would keep Graav from further questioning, and the gambit succeeded; the blitzer nodded and motioned to the door.

"He's fine. Getting more playing time than ever since the disaster at the Cup finals." Graav leaned forward and lowered his voice slightly. "Balgerda blew several key tackles and Bickson was not pleased, to say the least."

Beclem grimaced. "I heard about that. Sorry you broke your streak."

Graav shrugged. "Could've been worse. The Aurochs have this new forward, a kid no one ever heard of before, who pretty well carried them. He's pretty amazing; everyone's trying to figure out where they were hiding him. So, you're following the game?"

"As much as I can," Beclem replied with a nod. "How could I not keep track of how my little brother's team is faring?"

"Guess you can get the details from him yourself." Graav grinned. "He's meeting me here any minute."

As if cued, the door to the pub opened again and another young man came through it. He stood still at first, as if stunned, and then pushed his way through the tables and past the small crowd to the bar.

"Hello." Beclem stood and held out a hand to his brother with a tentative smile.

Zalitz walked past the hand and embraced him instead. "I can't believe it. I just heard from Mom, but I didn't dare believe until I saw you."

Beclem hugged him in return, then drew away. "Believe it. I'm fine, and I've left the Crusaders. So I'm back in Luca to stay."

"Wow." Zalitz looked Beclem up and down. "I guess we have a lot to catch up on." He cast a glance at Graav, who chuckled.

"It's okay, we can have lunch any time. Beclem. Man, it's great to see you again! Come by the locker room sometime soon." And Graav sauntered off, leaving Beclem and Zalitz alone.

They looked at each other silently for a moment, and then Zalitz sighed. "Okay. There's a private booth in the back that the Goers get first crack at. Graav reserved it already, so it's ours if you want to talk."

Beclem glanced around. Since this was a blitzer bar, Crusaders rarely frequented it. He'd be as safe here as anywhere. "All right." He followed Zalitz across the room and settled across from him, polished dark wood gleaming beneath his hands. A waitress followed shortly after, the food he had ordered in hand, and after exchanging a glance with Zalitz, she returned with a pint and a hearty sandwich. "So you're a regular."

"Yeah." Zalitz took a swig of his drink. "We all are; we pretty much own the place, if we want to. But don't change the subject. What happened?"

Beclem drummed his fingers on the table. He was reluctant to tell the story -- what if Zalitz reacted as their mother had? Then again, if he could trust anyone in this world, it was his brother. So he fortified himself with a mouthful of ale, then began.

By the time he finished, Zalitz had finished his food and gotten a refill of ale. He set down the full glass and shook his head sadly. "Man. I'm so sorry. It sounds terrible. No wonder you walked away from Yevon."

"So you don't blame the Al Bhed like Mom does?"

Zalitz shook his head. "She's gotten funny about the Al Bhed. You know how she was when Dad died? It's gotten worse since you left. Won't do business with them, makes noises about how they're to blame for Sin sinking Dad's ship." He sighed. "But I just can't agree with her. We blitz together, y'know? I've gotten to know the Psyches a little, and they're good people. They care about Spira, and they hate Sin, and they love the game as much as we do. And really? That's all that matters to me."

A sudden thought occurred to Beclem as he reached across the table and grabbed Zalitz's hand. "I have a favor to ask. You can say no, and I'll understand why if so. But I don't know if I have anyone else."

"Shoot." Zalitz looked at him, eyes wide and clear, hiding nothing.

He took a deep breath. "I need a place to stay in Luca, but it's not just me. I have another friend who's left the Crusaders, and he left under far worse circumstances. I can't really go into details, but Yevon is after him, and he needs a place to lay low for awhile."

"No problem." Zalitz squeezed Beclem's hand, then let it go. "You can have my place while you figure out what you're going to do. I'll just stay with Graav or something."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." Finally, Zalitz allowed a smile to cross his face. "Anything for my big brother."

-x-

Beclem settled into Zalitz's rooms that evening, and Nooj arrived the next day. Still wary of being seen, Nooj spent most of his time holed up in the apartment, venturing out only on game days, hiding in plain sight within crowds of blitzball fans. Occasionally he would haunt the back of the sphere theater, picking up what information he could from the screenings there. Not even Beclem saw him often.

Beclem went to as many games as he could; whenever he wasn't in the stadium, he was on the streets and in the pubs, soaking up the company of his old friends and all the gossip they had to share. Most often the rumors concerned the sport and its players, but tidbits from Yevon would sneak through: first the High Summoner's daughter was set to marry Maester Seymour, then she was under arrest for trying to kill him; the Crusaders had scattered, most going home, a few attempting to re-form in the Calm Lands. He listened to everything with a skeptical ear, waiting for something more concrete to work with.

It came about a week and a half after his arrival in Luca, on a warm evening while he relaxed on a bench by the fountain and waited for Zalitz to join him for a late dinner. He had attended the morning's games, but tonight the Goers were playing the Aurochs, and watching the Aurochs in action always made him uncomfortable. Too many memories there. Instead, he sat and enjoyed the warm evening air, the buzz of activity around him fading into a background drone that he always found comforting. He leaned back, propping his elbows against the top of the bench, and looked up at the darkening sky as a few of the brighter stars popped into his view. Lost in no thoughts, he was startled when a shout cut through every other sound in the square.

"I bring news! News from Bevelle!" Beclem sat up and pivoted in his seat. Along with everyone else, his eyes fell on the messenger who stood on the step that lead from the walkway into the square. In the sudden silence, the next words rang out: "Yevon has come under attack by the Al Bhed! They broke into the city and rescued the traitorous summoner, Lady Yuna. She and her guardians murdered Maester Kinoc, then fled. Anyone with information on these traitors should contact the nearest temple or garrison immediately!" And before anyone could react, he was gone, sprinting to the stair leading to the Highroad, presumably to spread his tidings further.

Stunned, Beclem stood up and headed toward his lodgings. He'd gotten about ten steps when he saw Zalitz, changed into dry clothes and shaking water droplets from his hair.

"Did you hear?" Zalitz ran a few steps, then fell into pace beside Beclem as they walked down the streets. On Beclem's nod, he continued. "I saw the ship pulling into the dock just as I was coming out of the locker rooms. There's about half a dozen runners; I guess they want this news to get out fast. Do you think it has anything to do with--"

"I don't know. I want to go home, talk to my friend, see what he makes of it." Beclem glanced sideways at Zalitz. "Sorry, I have to cancel for tonight."

"Not a problem." They hurried down the cobblestone street without speaking, and Beclem listened to the buzz of conversation, all on the same topic for once, reactions ranging from disbelief to fury. Zalitz followed him up the stairs to the apartment; after hesitating, Beclem opened the door and gestured him in. Nooj was there, pacing the living room with ungainly steps.

"What's going on?" he demanded as soon as Zalitz had shut the door. Nooj cast a suspicious glance at his host, then relaxed a bit as he nodded to the couch in invitation.

Beclem walked over to the window and closed it. "So you haven't heard?"

Nooj shook his head with an impatient toss of his hair. "I'd reached the bottom of the stairs when I overheard someone saying that all the warrior monks have been recalled to Bevelle. Since I expect many will pass through here, I thought it best to stay out of sight for awhile."

"Got it." Beclem leaned back against the windowsill. "Runners came via ship just a few minutes ago. They're announcing that Bevelle was attacked by Al Bhed, and that Lady Yuna escaped from custody and killed Maester Kinoc."

Nooj's eyebrows disappeared into his bangs. "Kinoc is dead?"

"So they say."

"Hm." Nooj began to pace again. "Do you believe it?"

Beclem shrugged. "Who knows? But for once I don't see why they'd lie about it. It paints them in a worse light than otherwise. This thing about the High Summoner's daughter being involved, though..." He joined Zalitz on the sofa. "I saw her at Operation Mi'ihen, and it doesn't make sense. She just didn't strike me as the type to make such a bold move."

"But if she tried to kill Maester Seymour..." Zalitz began.

"I believe that rumor even less," Beclem said flatly. "What could she gain by pretending to want to marry Seymour, then murdering him?"

"It's odd," Nooj agreed. "The whole thing is a mystery. Why would the Al Bhed go after Bevelle now of all times?" He looked sideways at Beclem. "But if Lady Yuna, or her guardians, did indeed try to kill Seymour and have now succeeded in taking out Kinoc, perhaps we could consider them allies."

"Maybe." Beclem thought for a moment, then sighed. "I wish I knew what to trust."

Nooj settled down in the armchair next to the window. "We need more time. Truth will sort itself out from fiction soon enough. It always does."

Beclem glanced at Zalitz, who nodded, and looked back to Nooj. "You're right. I guess we have to wait and see."

-x-

The rumors flew like seagulls, flocks of them, soaring in from every corner of Spira. Maester Seymour was chasing Lady Yuna across the Calm Lands and over Gagazet. Their marriage had actually been a love match, and the two of them were working together to overthrow Yevon. Kinoc was secretly alive and in cahoots with the warrior monks to take over Bevelle. Maester Kelk Ronso had surrendered his title and left the capital. Mika had revoked Kelk's title because he refused to sign an execution order for Lady Yuna. An underground army of Guado had massacred the Ronso and then began hunting down the Al Bhed. Some other summoner had beaten Lady Yuna to Zanarkand and would be challenging Sin any day now. Beclem heard all the stories, and believed none.

No messages came directly from Bevelle for several weeks. When one finally did arrive, it was so incredible that Beclem immediately went back to the apartment to share the news with Nooj, and to speculate as to its meaning.

"A flying ship will play the Hymn of the Fayth, and we're all supposed to sing along?" Nooj stared out the window. "An airship," he said in hushed tones. "So it's real. I wonder if..." The words trailed off into nothing as he focused on something far distant.

Beclem looked sideways at him. "What do you know?"

Nooj shook his head, hard enough to rattle his braids. "Nothing. Just, rumors in the Crimson Squad about an Al Bhed flying ship. I'd assume this is the same one. So. Did the message tell you why we are to sing along with a flying ship?"

"Not really." Beclem shrugged. "Supposedly it has to do with fighting Sin, but I have no idea how that could even be possible. Might be some kind of loyalty test. Only Yevon would dream that up. I don't know if the ship is even Al Bhed." He snorted and spread his hands. "You know what the official line is now? That the Al Bhed came up with the story about Yuna being a traitor in order to discredit her."

"Naturally." Nooj frowned. "When did they say this would happen?"

"They didn't. 'Soon.' Like we're all going to spend every spare minute watching the sky. I bet--"

He was interrupted by a banging at the door. After exchanging an alarmed glance with Nooj, he slowly made his way there as Nooj stood as quickly as he could manage, ready to flee to the bedroom to hide if necessary.

"Beclem! It's me." Zalitz's voice came through the door. Nooj sat down but did not relax as Beclem unlocked the door. Zalitz burst through, then dropped down on the couch, breathing hard. "More news of Yevon, did you hear?"

"This thing about the airship?"

Zalitz shook his head. "There's more. Much more. Grand Maester Mika is dead. Not only that, but he's been dead all this time. He's been ruling Spira as an unsent for fifty years. But that's not even the most shocking part."

Beclem gaped at Zalitz, and Nooj leaned forward, hands on his knees. True or not, the Grand Maester being an unsent was the biggest scandal to come out of Yevon in Beclem's lifetime. What could possibly top that?

"Well. I don't know if I believe it. But this is the rumor I hear." Zalitz looked furtively around him, as though afraid he might be overheard. "The Final Summoning isn't what we always thought. It doesn't destroy Sin. It _recreates_ it. The summoner chooses one of their guardians to become their fayth. And after that fayth defeats Sin, it becomes Sin in its place."

Beclem shook his head sharply from side to side. "What? I don't understand."

"It's a cycle." Nooj's words were low, almost a growl. "The defeat of Sin directly leads into the creation of the next Sin. If this is true..."

"Then no summoner could ever defeat Sin for good." Beclem's stomach twisted into a knot. "Everything Yevon teaches about purity and atonement is a lie, and always has been."

Nooj turned his head to the side and spat on the floor, face hard. "Everything we did. Everything we fought for. Everyone who's died. All for lies." He stood slowly and walked to the window. "I wonder what else they're hiding, in that snakes' nest we call Bevelle."

"Nothing would surprise me anymore." Beclem turned back to Zalitz. "So how do we know all this?"

"Lady Yuna," he replied. "Or so they say. She reached Zanarkand, all prepared to take on the Final Summoning, but she met Lady Yunalesca-- I know, I know." He held up his hand, warding off Beclem's question before he could ask it. "It seems impossible, let me finish the story first. So Yuna confronted Yunalesca about the Final Summoning, and when she learned the truth, she and her guardians attacked Yunalesca and defeated her."

Nooj turned around at that. "So. Even if a summoner wanted to perform the Final Summoning--"

"They couldn't." Zalitz finished Nooj's sentence with a nod.

"Machina won't work, the Final Summoning won't work. So then, how does anyone propose to stop Sin _now_?" Beclem demanded.

Zalitz shrugged. "No one knows. Lady Yuna may have saved Spira, or she may have doomed it. And we have no way of knowing which."

-x-

Two weeks later, Beclem woke up and found Nooj in the living room, dozing in the easy chair he favored, his prosthetic leg stuck out at an odd angle. Cautiously, Beclem approached Nooj and shook his shoulder. Nooj blinked his eyes open and then glared upward. "What?"

Beclem gestured at the leg. "Everything all right?"

Nooj grunted and looked away. Beclem stood silent and waited; Nooj was stubborn and prideful about accepting help, but common sense always won out eventually. Finally, with a heavy sigh, Nooj pushed himself up out of his slouch. "The knee froze after I climbed the stairs last night," he muttered. "I barely made it into the chair. Hasn't been lubricated properly since... for awhile."

"Okay." Beclem nodded. "I'm sure I can find some machine oil at the Al Bhed docks. Unless you want me to bring one of them here?"

The look Nooj cast him was so murderous that Beclem found himself swallowing a laugh. Forcing himself not to grin, he backed toward the door. "I'll ask around. Discreetly," he hastened to add as Nooj's expression changed to one of alarm. And before he could get in any more trouble, he hurried from the apartment.

-x-

Beclem was almost to the docks before he realized that he hadn't thought to ask Nooj if he needed food or water. He considered going back, but decided that it would probably be a bad idea to return without the lubricant. Instead, he stepped up the pace, and within a few moments he had arrived at the dock reserved for Al Bhed salvage ships. As he approached, he wondered whether anyone there would speak his language, or if he would have to depend on the bits of Al Bhed he knew.

There were three people there, two men and a woman, standing on the deck of a salvage ship, talking in low voices. They looked up at his approach and stepped back, tense and nervous. Beclem spread his hands to show his unarmed state -- he had a pistol holstered behind his back, but they didn't need to know that -- and said one of the three Al Bhed sentences he was sure of: "Please help me."

The Al Bhed exchanged glances, and then the woman came down the gangway of the ship, the others falling back. "What do you need?" she asked in lightly accented Spiran.

Beclem gave the speech he'd been working on since leaving the apartment. "I was with the Crusaders at Operation Mi'ihen, and afterwards I kept my rifle. But it keeps jamming, and I'm looking for any lubricant that might help."

She looked him over, green eyes glinting with skepticism. "Our rifles don't have the sort of moving parts that jam. But it doesn't matter why you need it, as long as you have the gil, and aren't just trying to get on the ship to blow it up. You aren't, are you?" Beclem shook his head and smiled, amused by her matter-of-factness. "Okay. Come with me."

He followed her up the ramp and onto the deck of the ship, where to his surprise he recognized one of the two men who were still standing there. With their blond hair and green eyes, the Al Bhed could start to blend together, but not many also sported an eye patch. The man met Beclem's gaze and started. "Do I know you?" he asked.

Beclem nodded. "We met about year ago, when the Crusaders were first making arrangements to use machina weapons. Probably right here at this dock, actually. I don't know that we were ever introduced, though. The name's Beclem." He held out his hand in the common Al Bhed manner of greeting, which he thought would be more polite than bowing. He'd lost his taste for the prayer gesture anyway.

With only a slight hesitation, the other man took the outstretched hand and shook it. "Gippal." Beclem remembered the name as it was spoken; he returned the handshake, and then pulled away. "So, what brings you here?"

"He needs some lube." The woman Beclem had first spoken to stepped between them and faced Gippal. "But he won't tell us what it's for."

"I can't." Beclem opened his arms again, this time in apology. "It's not for me, and my friend is eager to avoid notice. But I can tell you it's a fairly urgent personal matter."

Gippal jumped backward, arms flailing, eye widening in alarm. Beclem took a step back as well; he could sense Gippal's whole body vibrating with tension as he started to pace and mutter under his breath in Al Bhed. The others exchanged curious glances but said nothing. Beclem waited; the mood on the boat was growing tense and uncomfortable, but he didn't have much choice. If he left without lubricant, Nooj would be stuck in that chair forever.

Finally, Gippal wheeled on his heel and marched straight to Beclem, staring him straight in the eye. "You. You're a Crusader?"

Beclem looked calmly back. "I was."

"Okay." Gippal walked in a slow circle, hands on his hips. "So it might be him... but it can't be. Can it?" He stopped and whipped his head around again, glare still crackling with nervous energy.

Now it was Beclem's turn to pull back, startled. Had Gippal realized that he was talking about Nooj? He thought back over all the stories he'd heard about the prosthetics, particularly regarding the rumored involvement of the Al Bhed. But this guy didn't seem like a surgeon. Hell, he was still a kid.

Beclem sorted through his options. Nooj had been adamant -- tell no one of his presence in Luca. But these were Al Bhed. Surely they wouldn't turn anyone over to Yevon, especially not now. He weighed his options for another long minute; then he looked at Gippal and replied in a low voice. "It is."

Gippal took a deep, noisy breath and looked at his feet, uttering what sounded like a curse. The woman approached him, laid a hand on his arm, and said something; Gippal shook her off with a few sharp words. Beclem could only watch and grow ever more confused. What was going on?

At last Gippal let out another breath, this time with a shudder that let out all the tension in his shoulders. Then he turned to Beclem with an easy smile. "I have just the thing for you. It's below decks; I'll be right back."

Still confused, but not inclined to argue, Beclem nodded at Gippal's retreating back, then glanced at the other Al Bhed, who had moved to a corner of the deck, still talking softly. He looked away, avoiding their eyes until Gippal returned, a sealed tube in his right hand.

"Here." Gippal handed the tube to Beclem, who pocketed it. "He should be able to show you how to use it." Then he shifted back on his heels. Beclem could see his mind working, as if he were deciding what more, if anything to say. He had just opened his mouth when he was cut off by a shout from the other man on the deck.

All heads turned to him, and then up to follow his pointing finger. Beclem shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted at the dark speck that appeared in the distance. "What..."

"It's the airship!" Gippal bounded forward to the railing and gripped at it, tipping his head back for a better look. "And listen! Can't you hear it?"

Beclem closed his eyes and strained his ears. Faintly, over the sounds of the gulls and the waves lapping against the sides of the boat, he thought he heard music. Was it the Hymn of the Fayth?

Opening his eyes, he looked at Gippal, who nodded at him. "The Hymn. You must have heard the same story we did, right? See a ship in the sky, sing the Hymn."

Somehow, of all the improbable things that had happened today, the idea that the Al Bhed knew the Hymn seemed the most ludicrous. But Beclem didn't have time to ask questions; he had to get back to Nooj. "Thanks," he said, digging into his other pocket for some gil; Gippal waved him off.

"Consider it a favor." Beclem nodded, then left, running off the ship and onto the streets of Luca.

The scene that surrounded him was surreal. Everywhere he went, there were knots of people, gathered together and singing the hymn as they stared at the sky. The urge to join in was strong, but Beclem resisted -- Nooj wouldn't want to miss this, and as long as he was stuck in that chair he would have no idea. Soon Beclem reached the apartment and took the stairs two at a time, then burst in the door.

Nooj still sat in the chair, leg still frozen nearly straight, straining to look out the open window. "Do I hear singing?"

"Yeah." Beclem pulled out the lubricant and knelt next to the prosthetic leg. "It's that airship. Sounds like most everyone is playing along. Still no idea why. But first, can you show me how to use this stuff?"

Nooj reached across his body with his right hand and snatched the tube away. "I'll take care of it. You go see what's going on. I'll join you on the balcony as soon as I can."

Beclem knew an order when he heard one. Without another word, he went to the door that led out to the balcony and pushed open the curtains. And took in a sudden sharp breath at the sight that met his eyes, his hand automatically falling to the weapon at his belt. He turned around and shouted back into the apartment: "It's Sin! Sin is here!"

He thought he heard Nooj curse under his breath. "What's happening?"

"Some sort of standoff. I think -- damn, I wish I had some binoculars! -- the ship is moving away, luring Sin away from the city and out over the ocean. Yeah, that's what happening, and it seems to be working."

A creaking followed by a thudding noise, then the familiar lurching gait of Nooj's walk. Beclem turned back to the sky, grasping the railing. "That brightness off Sin's snout -- have you ever seen anything like it before?"

"No." Nooj stared into the distance. "I don't--" Whatever he would have said next was lost in a rumbling sound that seemed to come from all around them. "Careful!" The ground started to shake in the worst, most sustained earthquake Beclem had ever felt. The rattling of windows and bricks, along with a few screams, finally drowned out the sounds of the Hymn, although Beclem thought he could hear a few hardy souls continuing the song. Seized with feeling at the courage it must take for them to carry on under such frightening circumstances, he cleared his throat and, in a baritone that hadn't seen use in a decade, began to sing. After a pause, Nooj joined in, his voice clear and strong. Together they clung to the railing and sang the Hymn, projecting it toward the ship in the sky, not really knowing why but unable to resist continuing, even after the earthquake stopped.

Squinting into the sky, blocking as much of the morning sun as he could with his hand, Beclem strained to see something, anything. He thought he saw the dark speck of the airship flying along Sin's side, hovering there. Then it pulled away, and there was a bright flash of light. Sin screamed and flinched as a piece broke off and fell into the sea, trailing millions of pyreflies in its wake.

Beclem turned to Nooj, astonished. "Did I just see that?"

Nooj jerked his head in a sharp nod. "The ship has damaged Sin. I don't know how, but-- it's leaving!"

And indeed it was. Sin was running, flying off to the north, toward Bevelle, the ship in hot pursuit. Beclem was unable to look away until both the monster and its tormenter had disappeared into the distance. The few voices still raised in song trailed off, and Luca fell into complete silence as every eye stared into the sky.

-x-

A hush fell over the world.

Hours passed as Beclem and Nooj stood and watched. Every balcony on every apartment was filled with people doing the same. No one spoke. Eventually, Beclem heard a gurgle from his stomach, and he realized that it was past noon and neither of them had eaten. It seemed somehow wrong to break the silence to ask Nooj if he wanted food, so he slipped back into the apartment and into the kitchen, where he tossed some leftovers onto a plate and grabbed a flagon of ale.

"Here," he murmured as he returned to the balcony, waving the plate under Nooj's hand. Nooj picked up a piece of meat and took a few distracted bites. Beclem ate as well, and continued to watch. Other than occasionally shifting to grab a slice of meat or bread, or take a swig of ale, he hardly moved, Nooj still as a statue beside him, scanning the horizon for some indication that anything was happening.

Darkness fell. Beclem glanced back at the plate and realized it was empty. He was neither hungry nor satiated. The needs of the flesh seemed somehow secondary, the day a time out of time as Luca held its breath. Would Sin be defeated? Or would he be disappointed again, like almost every other time before?

"Aye!" The shout came from above him and to the right. Beclem stared, willing himself to see whatever it was he might have missed. Was there something up there, glowing brighter than the first stars of the night?

"Do you see it?" he asked Nooj, his tone still hushed.

"I don't-- there!" He pointed, a shiver running down his arm. The light was there, growing brighter, rising into the sky. And then it exploded, ripples of light and pyreflies filling the sky, spreading out over the entire canopy, drowning out the stars as the tiny lights rained down on their heads. It was a sight Beclem had seen only once, ten years ago, at the beginning of the last Calm.

Beclem's soul started to lift in his chest with equal parts happiness and disbelief. The silence was breaking, the city streets ringing with laughter and shouts of joy. "Unbelievable! I think they did it!" He turned to Nooj, eyes wide with amazement.

Nooj did not return Beclem's gaze. "So it would seem." His shoulders slumped. With relief? Or disappointment? Beclem could only watch, baffled, as Nooj backed away from the railing and disappeared into the apartment.


	3. Kilika

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in the Eternal Calm, a Crusader travels wherever he is asked to serve.

"Well, that was pointless." Beclem slammed the apartment door behind him with one hand and tossed his helm onto the couch with the other. It hit the back cushions, then bounced off, clattering to the floor.

Nooj limped in from the kitchen and settled into his chair. "Lady Yuna not an inspiring speaker?"

"You have no idea." Beclem plopped into his seat, kicking the helm aside as he did so. "It was a total waste of time. Just as well you didn't go." Despite Yevon's fall, Nooj still avoided appearing in public. Beclem had considered asking why, but since he wouldn't get an answer either way, he'd decided to let it lie. "She just rambled on about sacrifice and old friends. Nothing about Yevon, nothing about the deceptions of the Maesters and the teachings. Not a word about the future of Spira, or what happens now."

"That's unfortunate." Nooj tapped his metal fingers against his cane. "With the collapse of Yevon, Spira will be wanting a leader. Convenient if the High Summoner could fill the role."

"Yeah, so much for that," Beclem grunted. "Anyway, you would seem to be a free man. What will you do now?"

Nooj looked out the window. "I've imposed on your brother's hospitality long enough. It's time for me to go home. Now that Sin is gone, and the rebuilding of Kilika seems less like a fool's errand, I wish to lend myself to the effort, if I can." He glanced back toward Beclem, his expression almost sheepish. "I've already booked passage on tomorrow's ferry."

Beclem nodded, and then surprised himself with his next words. "May I join you?"

Nooj raised an eyebrow but said nothing as Beclem stood and walked toward the window. He stood there for a moment, looking over his city -- roofs hung with drying laundry, awnings over balconies and shop windows, some brightly colored and others faded by time and tattered by the sea breezes, people walking the alleyways, keeping to the shadows and avoiding the noontime sun. If he turned, he knew, he could see the blitz stadium, the docks, the ocean beyond them. All so familiar, and yet-- "This is my home. It always has been." He bowed his head. "But it doesn't feel right, being here when there's so much work still to be done."

He left the window and began to pace, hands clasped behind his back. "It's all I've ever wanted to do, you know, serve Spira and its people. That's why I joined the Crusaders. I could've played blitz professionally, but I chose to fight Sin instead. Now, the best way to serve is to rebuild. I don't think the Al Bhed or the Ronso want help from outsiders. I can't stomach the thought of going to Bevelle. That leaves Kilika. It feels like the right thing to do." He was in front of the window again; turning, he braced his hands against the windowsill to face Nooj again.

Nooj looked back at him, expression thoughtful. "I see." After a moment of silence, he nodded. "All right. Yes, come along. I'm sure they can use all the help they can get."

Beclem stood straight, bouncing on his toes, and stretched. "I'll be ready."

-x-

After a flurry of farewells -- a stilted conversation with his mother, a jovial lunch with the Goers, and a heartfelt leave-taking from Zalitz -- Beclem had met Nooj on the docks at dusk, and they'd boarded the overnight ferry together.

The first thing Beclem noticed when he awoke the next morning was not the heat but the humidity. The warm, heavy air covered him like a second blanket, even after he opened his eyes and rose from his bunk. Conditions were better outside, but the ocean breeze was still considerably warmer than the winds that prevailed in Luca. After a moment at the rail to check out the view of Kilika Island, its lush green peaks rising in the near distance, Beclem stepped back into the shadows of the cabin to get out of the way of the sailors who swarmed over the deck, pulling ropes and shifting sails as the ship began to prepare for docking.

Nooj was already waiting there, gazing in the direction of his homeland. "Have you been to Kilika before?" he asked.

"No. This is my first time south of Luca, actually." Beclem glanced up and over his shoulder. "And you? How long has it been since you were home?"

"Five years." The boat lurched under a sudden swell, and Nooj grabbed the rail of the stair leading up to the upper deck to maintain his balance. "I haven't seen Kilika since the day I left to join the Crusaders."

"Huh."

Nooj glanced down at Beclem. "And your next question would be, so is it still home? I'm not certain, to tell you the truth. I suppose that's one reason I came back."

Beclem nodded. "Of course." He crossed his arms and watched the island grow bigger, the shouts of the sailors and the cries of the gulls competing with the water splashing on the sides of the boat. "We'll be there soon?"

"Soon," Nooj agreed. "Half an hour, perhaps?"

"Just enough time to find some breakfast. You need anything?"

Nooj shook his head. "I'll eat when we get there." His face was calm, body as relaxed as it could be when braced against the motion of the boat, but Beclem still detected a slight strain to his voice. More nervous about this homecoming than he wanted to let on, Beclem supposed. But as usual, he decided not to ask, instead heading back into the cabin without another word.

-x-

The S.S. Winno came to a gentle stop as Beclem swung his knapsack over his shoulder and lifted Nooj's bag with his other hand. He stepped off the boat and stopped dead at his first close-up look at Kilika Port.

Even after the reports he'd heard, he found the scene somewhat shocking. The town had been built on a series of platforms connected by floating wooden walkways, but no more than two dozen buildings still stood, along with as many or more ruins. Everywhere he looked, he saw walkways leading to nothing, or to piles of boards torn into splinters. Even though months had passed, it appeared that very little construction had been done. The smell of vegetation and dead fish filled the air. A few people were in evidence, mostly hanging back in the eaves of what buildings remained.

Beclem turned around and looked over his shoulder at Nooj, who surveyed the scene from the deck of the Winno. His eyes were empty, the lines of his face bleak, and Beclem felt a surge of sympathy. All his life, he'd feared the sight of Luca in ruins; he could only imagine how it must feel to have that fear made reality.

Nooj looked down, then descended the gangplank, testing his balance with each step. Once he reached the walkway, he paused, then gestured with his cane. "The Crusader Lodge was that way," he said. "Who knows whether it's still there. But it seems the best place to start. I--"

"Nooj!" A young woman broke from the shadows and ran over to them, nearly knocking Beclem aside in her haste to reach Nooj. Then she enveloped him in a huge hug, although not before Beclem noticed that she was heavily pregnant.

"Hello Valli." Nooj awkwardly wrapped his good arm around her back, then set her slightly back and gestured toward her with a nod to Beclem. "My cousin. Valli, this is Beclem, a friend from the Crusaders."

She bowed to him with a smile. "Hi, and welcome to Kilika," she said. "What's left of it." Her smile faded a little as she spoke, but it brightened again as she looked back to Nooj. She took his hand and squeezed it. "I never thought I'd see you again, not after the message Momma got last year."

Nooj's expression remained solemn, if a little warmer now. "As you can see, here I am. What's left of me." The corner of his mouth quirked into a parody of a smile. "How is your mother?"

Valli's face fell, and she looked at her feet, releasing Nooj's hand. "She's gone," she whispered. "When Sin came, she--"

Beclem turned away to escape the private family moment; he had taken only a few steps away when he found himself surrounded by a group of locals, chattering excitedly.

One of them tugged at his sleeve. "So that's really Nooj? Still alive? What a miracle!"

"I guess it is." Beclem glanced over his shoulder; Nooj was still talking to his cousin. "Is the Crusader Lodge still standing? Can you show me where it is?"

The man nodded. "Follow me." He started off down the floating walkway in the direction Nooj had indicated earlier; Beclem followed, noting the devastation that surrounded him. Boards and half-sunken boats floated in the shallow water. Buildings in various states of disrepair, from minor wind damage to total destruction, lined the walkways, and Beclem wondered if it would even be possible to return the port town to its former charm without major assistance from the outside.

"This is the place," the man said as they stopped outside a building as ramshackle as the rest. "Any former Crusader is welcome, I'm sure." Beclem nodded his thanks as the man turned and walked away.

Pushing aside the cloth in the doorway to enter the lodge, Beclem blinked a few times to adjust to the darkness of the main room. All the windows were boarded up, tiny beams of light peeking through the slats and catching the dust in the air. Half a dozen people sat at the table in the center, eating breakfast. Beclem cleared his throat, and they all turned to look at him. One, a woman with dark hair who looked vaguely familiar, rose to greet him with a smile.

"Hi," she said. "Welcome to Kilika. Can I-- Nooj!"

All heads turned toward the door, the pleasant expressions of greeting freezing into surprise and awe. Beclem turned as well, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He'd spent so much time alone with Nooj, away from the world of the Crusaders, that he'd forgotten to expect this kind of reaction. But Yevon or no Yevon, Nooj was still a living legend, especially among the people gathered here.

Nooj froze, his brow furrowing into a quick frown. Then the moment passed, and he stepped into the lodge, his expression mellowing. "Elma."

She crossed the room to Nooj, looking up at him with enormous eyes. "You've come home! I can't believe it. I wasn't sure we'd see you again, not after..."

"Well. I am here." Nooj rested a hand on her shoulder, then dropped it. "I'm surprised to see you, too."

She shrugged. "No reason not to come back, really. The Knights were pretty much destroyed at Operation Mi'ihen; Captain Lucil was starting to pull things back together, but then Yevon fell apart and not much lasted after that. So we all went home. Guess it's for the best. I do miss the chocobos though, and the captain."

Nooj nodded. "I'm glad you're well." He gestured toward Beclem. "Do you know Beclem?"

Elma studied Beclem's face. "I've seen you around, anyway. Weren't you one of the leaders of the Operation?"

"You might say so," Beclem replied with a stiff nod. "I'm afraid that probably wasn't my finest hour."

"Aw, don't say that." She offered him a quick salute. "You all did your best. We wouldn't have taken part if we hadn't thought it was worth trying. Anyway. Welcome! Have something to eat."

She stepped aside, clearing their path to the table as one of the men pulled over two extra chairs. Beclem let Nooj sit first, next to Elma, then took the other after helping himself to a plate of eggs and a cup of coffee. The discussion around them turned to local politics: rebuilding, the status of the temple, who had survived to come home and who had not. Since most of the former Crusaders here were natives of the island, they knew many of the same people. Even Nooj listened with interest and contributed an occasional tidbit of information. Some of the names were familiar to Beclem, but before long he was feeling out of place, wondering whether he should have stayed home to play blitz after all.

"So." An unfamiliar voice interrupted his reverie, fork full of eggs halfway to his mouth; he looked into the friendly hazel eyes of the man who sat on his right, the one who had fetched the extra chairs. "Not a native, are you?"

Beclem set his fork back on the plate and shook his head. "I'm from Luca, originally. But there wasn't much for me there, so I thought I'd see whether I could make myself useful."

"I hear you there." The man took a sip of his coffee. "I was a warrior monk myself, and when Yevon fell apart my first question was 'who do I serve now?'"

"Were you stationed at Kilika Temple?" Beclem asked.

"Yeah. But I was also born and raised here. So really, helping rebuild was my only choice." The man inclined his head in the quick nod that signified an informal salute. "I'm Kal."

He nodded in return. "Beclem."

"Welcome to Kilika." Kal set down his mug and sat back in his chair. "So, you're from Luca. You a blitz fan?"

"I am."

Kal grinned. "Ahh, a kindred spirit. Get to games much?"

Beclem smiled back. "Whenever I can. Not so much since joining the Crusaders, of course, but every time I'm in Luca, I see as many games as I can fit in."

"You're a lucky man." Kal shook his head with a wistful sigh. "I try to make at least one tournament a season, but it doesn't always happen. This year, for example, although maybe it's just as well, given the kind of season the Beasts are having." He caught Beclem's eye and raised an eyebrow. "You're a Goers fan, I suppose."

"Naturally." Beclem lifted his hands in a mock-defensive pose. "Born and raised in Luca, and my brother is on the second string; what other team should I root for?" He reached for his coffee and took another drink. "Besides, we've hardly had a dominating year."

Kal chuckled. "For once. I have to say, if Kilika couldn't win the Crystal Cup this year, watching the Goers get taken down a notch by those upstart Aurochs was a fair second best." Beclem rolled his eyes; Kal cocked his head with a teasing grin. "Aww, come on. After five years in a row, you can't take a loss once?"

Beclem drained his mug and set it back on the table with a thump. "If it had been anyone else, I wouldn't have minded so much," he said, "but to be beaten by that sorry excuse for a team..."

"In past years, maybe, but you have to admit they made a real turnaround this year. That kid who came out of nowhere really shook things up." Kal set the feet of his chair back on the ground and stood up. "More coffee?"

"Sure." Kal stood as he grabbed both mugs; Beclem took the last bite of egg remaining on his plate, then glanced around the table. The conversation seemed to have turned to the topic of possible sources of aid from the outside world.

"I guess it's too much to ask for help from what's left of Yevon," said the man on Nooj's left. "Since all their leaders are gone, except I guess the High Summoner. I wonder if she could help us."

Beclem could not hold back a snort of derision, and all eyes turned to him, He glanced up at Nooj, who shrugged, then took a drink of water. "I wouldn't expect much from that quarter," Beclem said. "Didn't any of you hear her speech the other day? She seems too wrapped up in her own grief to be of much use."

"Really?" Elma shook her head. "Doesn't sound like the High Summoner I met on the road. She seemed pretty determined to me."

Beclem shrugged. "I saw what I saw. It was more like a wake than a rally. Which of those do you think Spira needs right now? Yes, we've all lost people; some people lost everything." As he looked pointedly around the room, he could see everyone cataloging family and friends killed by Sin, at home as well as in battle. "No point wallowing in it, right? We should move forward." A few eyes shifted away, but to his relief half of the heads around the table nodded.

"Huh." Kal sat back in his chair and handed Beclem his refreshed coffee cup. "Well, it couldn't hurt to send an envoy to Besaid anyway. Just in case, yeah?"

"We might as well." Nooj set down his glass. "But for now, we'd best assume that Kilika will need to fend for itself. We'll have to draw up plans and pull together work crews, get as many volunteers from the other locals as possible. Agreed?" He glanced around the room, and Beclem noted that everyone looked back and nodded. It seemed that this crew had found itself a leader after all.

-x-

The sun beat down on Beclem's back and sweat trickled past his ears to drip on his neck as he pounded yet another slat into place. Then he let out a yelp of pain as the hammer slipped out of his slick palm, crashing into his thumb. "Dammit!" Rocking back on his heels, he stuck the thumb into his mouth to dull the sting.

"You okay?"

Dropping his injured hand and shaking it out, Beclem stood and turned around to see Elma. She walked down the floating walkway he had been repairing, Nooj a few steps behind, and she looked at him with concern.

"I'll be fine. My hand got too sweaty to keep a good grip." Beclem clenched his hand into a fist, squeezing the offended thumb. "Doesn't it ever cool down here? Or at least get a little less humid?"

Nooj shook his head. "We don't really have seasons here, at least not as compared to up north. It just rains more in the winter."

Beclem grimaced. "More? You mean I can look forward to several downpours a day?"

"Not so much that as winter storms." Elma grinned. "But hey, it's only been a week, right? Give yourself some time to get used to it. Anyway, you should take a break now. We were coming to get you -- the Liki will be in soon."

"All right." Beclem opened his hand to take one more look at his thumb; seeing no obvious damage, he fell into step between Elma and Nooj. "I still say it won't have made any difference."

Elma glanced over her shoulder at him. "Give it a chance. You never know, right?"

Beclem turned to Nooj. "She always this optimistic?" Nooj shrugged but said nothing. A few moments later, the three of them stood at the dock as the S.S. Liki pulled in alongside. Their first night in Kilika, Nooj selected Kazi, a Crusader mage with a talent for diplomacy, to head for Besaid and ask for Lady Yuna's support. Although Nooj had attempted to keep the details of his plan somewhat quiet, word had gotten around, and most of the Crusaders who had joined the rebuilding effort gathered dockside, along with a few other residents of the island. Fast whispers and high-pitched mumbling filled the air; Beclem could feel the anticipation radiating from every corner, from all his new companions, from everyone but himself -- and Nooj.

Two sailors jumped from the deck to the dock, tying the ship into place and pulling the gangplank free. Three other passengers disembarked before Kazi stepped out of the cabin. When she appeared, the crowd fell silent, the atmosphere of excitement transmuting into tension. She looked around the assembled group, then met Nooj's gaze. Nooj looked back and raised his chin, asking his question without saying a word.

For a moment, no one moved, not even to breathe. Then Kazi dropped her head with a quick shake of her red hair.

The crowd on the dock burst into a riot of sound, chattering interspersed with cries of "No!" and inarticulate groans. Kazi didn't seem to notice; she trudged down the gangplank and through the bustle, ignoring the Crusaders who pressed in close, asking angry and excited questions, as she made her way to Nooj.

"Stop!" Nooj held up his right arm, and the crowd quieted, although not to the dead silence of before. "Let her speak." He looked down at Kazi, who stared at his feet. "Tell us what happened."

Beclem saw Kazi's shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath; she lifted her chin and looked only at Nooj as she started to speak. "I got to Besaid three days ago. There were lots of pilgrims there, from all over Spira. They shuffled us all into a tent just outside of town and asked us to wait."

"They?" Nooj asked.

Kazi nodded. "The Lady Yuna's guardians. Mostly Madam Lulu and Sir Wakka. They're in charge right now, and they're very protective of the High Summoner. They said something about her privacy, and that she needed to rest." The murmuring sounds swelled, but Nooj halted the noise with a look. "I waited my turn, and I finally had the chance to meet with Lady Yuna for a few minutes yesterday. I told her about our situation, and she was polite and sympathetic, but she didn't say much. Just that she can't travel right now, or promise any assistance. Her guardians were there, so I didn't feel like I could push it any further So I came back. Sorry."

Nooj shook his head. "It's not your fault. You did all you could." She nodded, then stepped back with a sigh as Nooj raised his head and looked around at the assembled group. "So. This is a disappointment, but given our intelligence regarding Lady Yuna--" he acknowledged Beclem with a quick nod as he spoke these words "--we can't really say we expected any other outcome. Can we?"

Beclem tried not to look smug as the others looked at the ground and shuffled their feet. A few shook their heads; Elma sighed, and her shoulders slumped. "I guess not," she said.

"All right." Nooj pulled himself to his full height, and Beclem noticed that almost everyone else imitated his motion -- putting their shoulders back, standing just a little taller. "Now that this question is settled, we get back to work. Let's show the rest of Spira what Kilika can accomplish." Without waiting for a reaction, he began to walk back toward the lodge, Kazi standing aside to let him go, and then the assembled crowd fell into step behind him, their expressions a mingling of sadness and hope.

-x-

Nooj's prediction held true: two months passed with very little break in the heat, but the daily rainstorms became longer and more frequent. Then a storm blew in, driving everyone inside to seek shelter from heavy rain and fierce winds. No sooner had it broken than the heat and humidity returned, and that morning Beclem and Kal ventured back outside to check on the walkways. Together, they led the small work crew that repaired and extended them, spending their days bent over the bright shining water and planning out routes to houses that had yet to be rebuilt. They had made progress, but sometimes it seemed like they inched forward at an agonizingly slow pace, and Beclem could see a few missing and splintered boards, fresh damage caused by the wind and waves. "Do you see that?" he grumbled, waving his hand over the wrecked section.

Kal ran a hand through his messy sun-bleached hair and sighed. "Yeah. Guess we just have to move faster, get these repaired and finished before the stormy season really kicks in."

Biting back another frustrated response, Beclem hauled up his stash of wood and nails and motioned the rest of the team forward, barking out instructions to each member. Then he settled down to work, yanking a damaged board free, tossing it into the water, then laying a new one into place. Then the next, and the next, and the dozen after that, until he reached the end of this particular stretch. Wiping away the sweat and hair that stuck to his brow, he stood, each vertebra creaking as he unbent his back and rose to his feet. Then he pulled his shirt over his head, kicked off his shoes, and jumped straight into the sea.

For a few moments, he swam in a lazy circle, reveling in the cool waters, spinning as though to break a tackle. But soon his lungs started demanding more air, and he reluctantly turned for the surface. Once there, he took a deep breath; looking around, he noticed that everyone was gone but Kal, who sat on the edge with his legs dangling in the water, balancing a blitzball on his open palm. "I sent the rest of the crew off to lunch," Kal said. "But that looks much better than food."

"Oh, it is." Beclem turned to float on his back, relaxing into the gentle bobbing of the waves. Despite everyone's reassurances that he would get used to the tropics, he still felt as sweaty and miserable at the end of every day in Kilika as he had after the first. Swimming was the only thing that made him feel human again.

Something smacked the water next to his head, throwing droplets into his face -- Kal's blitzball. Beclem rotated himself upright, grabbed the ball, and tossed it back. It arced toward Kal, who jumped off the dock to catch it, landing in the water with a loud splash. Then he broke the surface and shook his head to clear the water from his eyes while letting out a whoop of pleasure. "Man, did you ever have the right idea." He threw the ball into the air, and Beclem caught it. "Play to three?"

Beclem smiled. "You're on." He caught a breath and then dove, ball tucked under his arm, swimming for the underwater pylon that Kal had declared his goal the first time they'd blitzed one-on-one. They often played at the end of their shift, sometimes convincing others to join them, and it was always a highlight of Beclem's day. For a few glorious moments, he glided through the clear blue sea, no other living being in sight, relishing the coolness and quiet. Then movement from beneath caught his eye: Kal, who popped up in front of him and made a grab for the ball. Beclem snatched it away, then swiveled to make a sideways kick. The ball curved around Kal and bounced off the post.

Kal shook his head as Beclem lifted his hands, one with an index finger extended to represent one goal, the other in a fist to show Kal's zero. Kal swam off to retrieve the ball, then hurtled back at top speed, Beclem treading water and waiting for a kick or a pass. Seconds later, the ball sliced through the water toward him, and he lifted up his hand for the block; the ball bounced off his palm and up, heading for the sky. Beclem followed, breaking the surface just in time to hear a loud "Ooof!"

He turned and realized that he was much closer to the floating boards than he'd realized -- the ball had hit a passerby. Then he looked up at the woman standing on the walkway, who held a hand to her dripping wet cheek, the blitzball at her feet, and she looked back.

"Beclem?"

He hauled himself onto the walkway, through air that felt even heavier and hotter than before his swim. "Lucil?" He stood and took a quick glance around for his shirt, but it was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he settled for running his hand through his wet hair to straighten it, a futile attempt to look respectable in front of a commanding officer.

"It is you!" Lucil saluted Beclem with a smile. "I'd heard you were here."

"You heard right." Stiffening his back, he returned the salute, then gestured to Kal, who had exited the water on Lucil's other side. "Kal, another work crew leader and former commander of the warrior monks at Kilika Temple; Lucil, former Captain of the Chocobo Knights and one of our most respected Crusaders."

Lucil flushed slightly, then turned her salute on Kal. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

Kal returned the gesture with a smile. "Likewise, Captain. We're heading off to lunch, and we'd be honored if you'd join us."

She inclined her head and dropped the salute. "Thank you, Commander." She fell into step next to Beclem as they followed Kal to the old Crusader Lodge, which the construction crew used as a dormitory and mess hall. "How goes the rebuilding?"

"Well enough," Beclem replied. "Slowly, but steadily. We expect the walkways to be restored by the end of next month, although we had a storm this week that slowed us down. Then we can focus our efforts on rebuilding the houses that have been damaged. Our hope is to get enough habitable buildings that can survive the rainy season. After that, we'll begin new construction. It may be years before it's finished."

Lucil shook her head. "Such a shame that it's taking so long."

Beclem shrugged. "It's so hot here; we have to take a long break every afternoon, otherwise we'd all drop from exhaustion. Of course, more volunteers would help, but everyone's too busy getting their own houses in order. Speaking of which, what have you been up to? And what brings you here?"

"It is rather a long story." Lucil smiled, her pleasant expression betraying nothing. "Perhaps we can talk at lunch?"

"Sure." They had reached the Lodge, and Beclem pushed the cloth door aside to let Lucil pass through first. By the time he followed her in, the room was already buzzing with excitement at Lucil's appearance, a small group crowding around her. Beclem considered popping back to his bunk to grab a clean shirt, but thirst won out over manners. And half the men in the room were shirtless, and most of the women nearly so; he hardly stood out. So he pushed past the throng and made his way to the food. After pouring himself a glass of water, which he downed in three swallows, he refilled the glass and grabbed a sandwich and a piece of fruit. Only then did he take a look around the room for Nooj, his usual lunchtime companion. Beclem soon found him at their usual corner table, a half-empty plate in front of him and a mug of ale in his hand.

"Where'd she come from?" Nooj indicated Lucil with his mug, then took a swig before setting it back on the table.

Beclem shrugged. "She didn't say. Promised to tell me more at lunch." He glanced at the doorway just in time to see Elma push through; she shrieked with joy and ran to Lucil, almost knocking her over with a fierce embrace. "But I have a feeling her time may be in high demand."

Nooj's mouth twitched into a near-smile. "Perhaps so. No need to press her; I'm sure she'll speak with us soon enough."

Beclem grunted in response, then tore into his lunch. One aspect of Kilika he had no complaints about was the food -- the fish was always fresh and well-prepared, and today's tuna sandwich with some sort of nut spread was no exception. But today, the meal held only half his attention; he kept finding himself looking back toward Lucil, deep in conversation with Elma at table on the other side of the room. He remembered then that Elma had been another of the Chocobo Knights -- did Lucil's appearance here have something to do with that group? Or had she just come to see Elma?

"Well, guess I can stop wondering," he muttered to himself as the two women stood and headed for their table. Beside him, he felt Nooj shuffle in his seat in an attempt to stand without using his cane. Caught between needing to show respect to a fellow officer and not wanting to show up a friend, Beclem brushed the crumbs from his fingers and scooted to the front of his seat in order to rise, but at that same moment, Lucil waved them both down.

"Please. There's no need to stand on formality. We are all equals here." She nodded to Beclem, who settled back into his chair, then turned a brilliant smile on Nooj. "Captain."

Nooj flinched. "I have no right to that title any longer. Especially if, as you say, we're equals now."

"Of course. Still, I am pleased to see you doing so well." Lucil took a seat; behind her, Elma rested a hand on her shoulder, and Lucil looked up.

"I have to get back to work," Elma said, "so I'll catch up with you later." She nodded to Beclem and Nooj and smiled down at Lucil, then disappeared out the side door.

Lucil watched her go, then turned her gaze straight at Nooj. "So, tell me about the rebuilding effort. Beclem and Elma both tell me that it progresses more slowly than you had hoped."

"You are correctly informed." Nooj sighed. "We're short of volunteers, materials, and construction experience. Most of us are soldiers, not builders, and too many of the locals who could have shared their expertise were killed in Sin's last attack. Everything takes three times longer than it should, and the crew is getting frustrated. Yesterday's storm didn't help matters, either, not in terms of time lost or of morale." He shook his head, then sat up straighter. "But I suspect you didn't come all this way to satisfy your curiosity about the state of Kilika."

Lucil smiled. "Your guess is correct, of course. But before I go into any detail, I ought to explain where I've been the past few months." She leaned forward, her back still straight. "After Operation Mi'ihen, the surviving Chocobo Knights went to the Calm Lands in search of more chocobos -- I suppose you heard that only one of our mounts survived the battle?"

Nooj's answering nod was grim. "That must have been difficult."

"Yes." Lucil bowed her head for a moment before continuing. "We found a promising herd, but before we had time to begin training, word came of the unrest within Yevon and then the fall of Sin. With neither force remaining to unite us, the group drifted apart, and most everyone went home." Once again, she glanced in the direction Elma had gone, so quickly that Beclem almost thought he had imagined it. "I was no exception. I grew up in Bevelle, and so I returned, but not to the city: St. Bevelle called to me, and I went there to see how I might assist in rebuilding what was left of Yevon."

"Yevon!" Beclem snorted. "Why would you care about them, after what they did to us? To the Crusaders, to all of Spira?"

Lucil raised an eyebrow. "Do you truly believe that all of Yevon knew the truth of the Final Summoning? The Maesters, yes, but they are no more. Should we hold all the priests and nuns responsible for the actions of their superiors, any more than the soldiers who fought in Operation Mi'ihen were responsible for the poor judgment of their commanding officers?"

Beclem clenched his hands into fists, his jaw tightening. How dare Lucil throw that in his face? Especially as she had also been an enthusiastic supporter of the operation and deeply involved in the planning. "And who led us into that poor judgment in the first place? Kinoc laid a trap for us, he wanted us to fail, to be made into an example. He..." A cool weight fell on his bare shoulder, and he stopped, realizing that he was shaking.

"Enough." Nooj laid his metal hand back on the table. "We can tell Lucil our theories later; for now, we should let her finish."

Beclem exhaled with a shudder; he opened his hands and let them fall to his lap. "Yes, of course. Sorry for interrupting."

"It's all right." Lucil relaxed back into her chair. "So. I went to the temple, and as you might expect, things were a bit... chaotic. Without real leadership, there was a great deal of infighting; for the first month, it was all we could do to keep order. But then a former priest named Trema rose above the fray and took control. The priests and warrior monks have accepted his leadership, as have all the former Crusaders who came to Bevelle. Lord Trema has a plan for Spira: he believes we must learn more about Spira's past. Her true past, not the lies the Maesters let us believe for so many years. So he set us to work. The priests and nuns he sent into Bevelle's vast libraries, to read and catalog all the knowledge that has been buried in the texts there. Most of the warrior monks and Crusaders went back into military training, to be a force against fiends and brigands, but a few of us he handpicked for a special task." She dropped her voice, and Beclem had to lean over the table to hear her. "Lord Trema has found a number of sphere recordings depicting scenes from Spira's history, some of them over a thousand years old."

Nooj jerked upright. "A thousand years old? From the machina wars?"

"Yes. And some are even older." Lucil leaned in still closer. "Lord Trema charged us to find as many spheres as we can and return them to Bevelle, where they may be studied and catalogued. We will help create a truer picture of Spira's history than we could ever have known otherwise. He calls us his Seekers."

"And you're here to look for one of those spheres?"

Lucil nodded. "To find as many as I can. In the town, in the temple. There may even be some buried in the jungle."

Beclem cocked his head sideways. "And he sent you alone?"

"I came alone." Lucil dropped her gaze to the table. "But perhaps I will not leave alone." Then she lifted her chin and looked straight at Nooj, her eyes wide.

"Ah." Nooj's face was unreadable, and Beclem found that his hands were clenched again, gripping the tops of his thighs. To learn the truth of Spira's past... but was it worth it, if it meant working with the remnants of Yevon? Schooling his expression, he met Nooj's eyes with a small shrug; Nooj responded with a nod, then returned his attention to Lucil.

"I will have to think about it," he said. "By when you do need an answer?"

Lucil sat up. "It will take me a few days to search the island properly. You are welcome to join me at any time before I leave. Even if you choose to come to Bevelle later, I know that Lord Trema would be happy to have you both."

"All right." Nooj pushed his chair back. "We'll table the issue for now." He reached for his cane, but before he could stand, Beclem was already on his feet. He nodded a quick farewell to Lucil and then stalked out of the room toward the barracks, churning with conflicting thoughts and emotions.

-x-

Beclem cracked an eye open to see Nooj and Lucil standing in the hallway. Shaking his head to clear his brain of sleep, he noticed the orange rays of sunset filling his dorm room. The short nap he'd planned had stretched into hours; he had missed his second shift. "Damn," he muttered as he let himself drop back into his pillow. Even as he did so, he realized that he'd needed the rest -- the headache he hadn't consciously noticed before was gone, and he felt much calmer now, the edgy energy that he'd been running on all day dissipated. He stared at the slats of the bunk above him, and thought.

"Beclem?" A sharp rap of metal on wood roused him again; he rolled up onto one elbow to see Nooj in the doorway, Lucil beside him.

He sat up quickly and started groping under the bed in search of a shirt. "Sorry I overslept."

"It's all right." Nooj gestured to Lucil. "We spent most of the afternoon talking anyway."

Beclem's fingers closed around a crumpled tunic; he yanked it free, shook out the wrinkles, then pulled it over his head. "So did you tell her? The truth about the operation, and about the Crimson Squad."

"He did." Lucil bowed her head. "Yevon was responsible for some terrible things, and I will never forget the part I played in them." She lifted her chin to meet Beclem's eyes. "But that was the old Bevelle. Trema is building a new order, built on honesty and truth, not secrets and lies. It will lead the way to a new Spira, and we will be a part of it." She glanced up at Nooj, who nodded.

Beclem looked from Lucil to Nooj. "You're going."

"I am." Nooj took a step into the room.

Beclem raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."

Nooj and Lucil exchanged a look, and then Lucil smiled at Beclem. "I'll leave you to discuss this. Perhaps I'll see you at dinner?" She left with a quick salute.

Nooj walked into the room and sat down on the bed across from Beclem's, ducking to avoid the edge of the top bunk. The mattress creaked as he settled into place; only then did Beclem notice the sphere he carried in his good hand, gleaming a soft yellow in the afternoon sun. "So."

"So." Beclem crossed his arms. "What happened to needing some time to think about it?"

Nooj shrugged. "Lucil was very convincing. As was this." He lifted the sphere, holding it at eye level. "After you left, she suggested that I join her on the exploration of the town. Spoke to a few people, visited the tavern and the inn. The innkeeper dug through a few things, and she found this. Here." Beclem held his hand out, and Nooj placed the sphere in his waiting palm.

Beclem raised the sphere into a beam of sunlight, watching the tiny movements of the recording glitter inside. "What's on it?"

"A blitzball match. The innkeeper thought it was probably about 40 years old." Beclem cocked his head in surprise; Nooj spread his hands. "I know, not an earth-shattering find. But we found this in a simple hour of searching. Imagine how much more could be discovered with real effort."

"It's tempting," Beclem admitted. "But can you really stomach Bevelle? Returning to the heart of Yevon, and all that would mean?"

"Lucil says Trema is a worthy leader, and I trust her. But even if she were wrong, I still think it's the right choice." A gleam popped into Nooj's eye. "Consider this, Beclem. I doubt we'd be spending much time in Bevelle. We'd be traveling Spira again, but without Sin at our backs. And we'd be seeking knowledge. Uncovering more evidence that will shine the light of truth on Yevon's lies. What better cause could there be?" His smile widened, and the sparkle in his eyes brightened, almost as though he were lit from within. Beclem couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Nooj look this eager. Not just determined, but actually excited. Almost happy.

Then the moment passed, and Nooj turned serious as ever. "I've made my decision. I'm going to Bevelle. I'll speak to Kal tonight about taking leadership of the rebuilding effort. Unless you want it?"

"Hah! I'm no carpenter, and I sure wasn't meant to do physical labor in the jungle. No thanks." Beclem leaned against the wall, his fingers still closed around the sphere. "I won't pretend I've been happy here. No offense, I know it's your home." He glanced at Nooj, who nodded. "But it's not mine, and I don't think it ever will be." The sphere was cool and heavy in his hands, his thoughts sliding around his brain like his thumb gliding across the smooth surface. He started out the window as he thought. Could he really do this? Even if Lucil and Nooj were right. Could he go back to Bevelle and work for the masters he swore he'd never serve again? But what if he passed up this opportunity to seek Spira's past, and regretted it forever?

He sat up, and Nooj turned, eyes focused on Beclem's face. "All right. I'll join you."

Nooj reached for the sphere, which Beclem returned. "Good." He placed the sphere in a pocket and stood, the floor creaking under his weight. "I'll find Lucil and let her know. She will be pleased you've decided to come." He smiled again, with surprising warmth. "As am I."

-x-

And so, only two months after packing up his life and getting on a boat, Beclem found himself doing it all over again. He stood at the edge of his cot and glanced over all his worldly possessions -- his knapsack, his helm and armor, and his pistol.

"Leaving already?" Beclem looked up to see Kal walking toward him with a hammer in one hand and a smile on his face.

Beclem nodded. "Lucil and Elma are taking a few days to search the island for spheres, but Nooj wanted to get to Bevelle and meet with Trema right away. So we're heading out now."

"Ah, that explains the quick packing job." Kal waved his hand over the small pile on the bed. "Good thing we've been trained to travel light, yeah?"

"Ha. Yes." Beclem fastened on his gun belt and holstered the pistol. "Seems like I just get started in a place, and then I'm gone. But I guess the Calm was never going to change everything." He checked the buckles on his knapsack one last time, tugging the straps to make sure they would hold. Then he looked back to Kal. "Sure you won't join us?"

Kal shook his head. "A long time ago, I promised myself that I was finished with Bevelle. I see no reason to go back on that now. Kilika needs me; it's where I belong."

"I understand. Still, if you change your mind..."

"I know." Kal set down the saw to lift his arm in salute, and Beclem returned the gesture. "And naturally you are more than welcome to come back." He dropped his arm, and his smile faded into a more serious expression. "Good searching, Beclem. I hope you figure out where you belong, someday."

"I already know that," Beclem replied, reaching for his knapsack and swinging it over his shoulders. "Wherever Spira needs me most, that's where I'll go."

Kal nodded slowly . "Of course. Well. Good luck, and safe sailing."

"You too." Beclem caught his friend in a quick embrace, then turned for the door, tucking his helmet under his arm. Nooj and the others would be waiting at the dock, and he was ready to get this new adventure underway.


	4. Bevelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search for answers draws Beclem into the former lair of his enemies.

In his dream, Beclem rode a seesaw. Zalitz sat on the other end, and they rocked up and down, laughing as though they were children again, until the rest of the Goers piled onto Zalitz's side of the seesaw, yelling and screaming, flinging Beclem up into the air, propelling him skyward, wind whistling around his ears. Then he hit the ground hard. It took him a few seconds to understand that he was awake, and that the smooth wooden surface beneath him was the floor of his cabin on the S.S. Meera, the former Yevonite sailing ship, sailing straight into the heart of a storm.

Beclem stood, only to be nearly knocked off his feet again by the pitching of the deck, and he had to grab the bunk next to his to maintain balance. The shouting voices from his dream continued: the sailors, communicating with each other as they fought to keep the ship under control. Glancing around the room, he saw that the other bunks were empty -- his shipmates were gone, and their rucksacks littered the floor. He grabbed the handles of the nearest two and tossed them in a drawer that had slid open, then took a minute to collect the rest, chasing them as they tumbled around the cabin. After kicking the drawer shut and pressing down the latch with his toe, Beclem made his way up the stairs and opened the door from the cabin to the deck.

The scene that greeted him was utter chaos. The ship slammed up and down through the waves at crazy angles, waves crashing over the railings. Between the waves and the rain falling in sheets, the deck was covered in at least an inch of water. Beclem stepped through the door; the force of the wind slammed it shut behind him and pushed him up against the wall the cabin, driving raindrops into his face. Soaking-wet sailors clambered over the masts to pull down sails and rigging. One of them caught Beclem's eye, and he motioned toward the bridge.

Beclem wiped water from his eyes and cupped his hand around his mouth. "Do you need help?"

The sailor shook his head firmly, and pointed at the stairs leading to the bridge again. Beclem took the hint and walked himself the few steps to the stairway, gripping the rail along the cabin wall, buffeted by rain and wind with every step. Finally he reached the door; he yanked it open and flung himself inside. The captain stood at the wheel, her hands gripping the handles with grim determination; five Crusaders -- Nooj, Kazi, and three others, one woman and two men -- sat on the benches that lined the wall. Some of them looked rather green.

Beclem took a minute to catch his breath, pressing his back against the wall and dripping on the floor. Then he lurched over to the nearest available stretch of bench. It happened to be next to Nooj, who had clamped his hands around the head of his cane, the knuckles on his right fingers white with tension; he seemed to be bracing the cane hard against the floor, presumably to keep from being jostled out of his seat. He acknowledged Beclem with a grunt. "You all right?" Beclem asked; Nooj nodded. "Good." Beclem shook his head. "Remind me why we're rushing off to Bevelle again?"

Nooj's frown lost some of its grimness as he looked into the distance. "For truth. What better cause could there be?"

"None, I suppose." Beclem settled back against the walls of the cabin, holding himself in place by pushing his hands against the bench. Truth, and the opportunity to uncover more evidence against Yevon. It was hard to argue with Nooj's logic, and yet Beclem kept questioning it. Nooj's decision to abandon Kilika for the Seekers still seemed like an abrupt change of heart. He risked a sidelong glance to his right, but Nooj faced resolutely forward, his expression shuttered once more, not suggestive of an invitation to probe any deeper. The ship pitched hard to the right; tensing his arm to compensate, Beclem closed his eyes and hoped it would be over soon.

-x-

Plowing through two storms in a row had one good side effect: when Bevelle finally appeared in the distance on the afternoon of the sixth day of the voyage, Beclem was able to take pleasure in the sight. The enormous spire of St. Bevelle glinted in the setting sun, a bright contrast to the dark clouds massing on the horizon behind it. The ship pulled into the dock; as Beclem stepped off the gangway, he almost collapsed in relief at feeling solid ground beneath his feet. He was the last of the former Crusaders to disembark, and he walked over to the group gathered in front of a man dressed in an old warrior monk uniform.

"You the ones Lucil sent from Kilika?" He looked them over, fixing his hard blue eyes on Nooj. "We were expecting you days ago. What kept you?"

"We were delayed by storms," Nooj replied. "Believe me, no one is more eager than I to begin work with the Seekers." Beclem cast him a quick sideways glance, noting the determination on Nooj's face. There it was again: that sudden eagerness to get out there and look for spheres. Nooj had never been this interested in Spira's history before. Maybe he'd developed a taste for the topic during his convalescence? Now there was a subject Beclem had no desire to raise. Still, he wondered.

"Fine." The man uncrossed his arms and bowed in a half-hearted prayer gesture. "Well, welcome to Bevelle. I'll show you to your temporary quarters; dinner will be ready shortly. You'll meet with Lord Trema tomorrow, and he'll tell you more about what we're doing here. Any questions?" He didn't wait for anyone to answer before he turned on his heel and marched down the dock.

Beclem followed, keeping himself a step behind Nooj. The dock was at the edge of the temple complex, which looked much as it had on Beclem's single previous visit to Bevelle, when he has sworn his oath to Yevon and Maester Kinoc at the end of his Crusader training. Nooj had been on that trip, too, but he had been different then -- barely a teenager, so eager to fight and to serve Yevon. So many things had been different.

"Stop that," he muttered to himself, jolting himself back to the present with a sharp shake of his head. He looked up at the spire again, and this time he could see the deep gouges that Sin had left behind during its final battle, as well as the scaffolding that had been built all the way up the tower. He nudged Nooj and pointed up. "Looks like they're doing some repairs. Typical Yevon! Focusing on symbols while people go without homes. Imagine if that money and effort could be diverted to Kilika and other towns damaged by Sin."

"Indeed," Nooj replied, frowning. "We should speak to Trema about that. A New Yevon should have new priorities."

The party passed through a doorway into the temple and down a long passage, then into a large room -- a cafeteria. A dozen round tables stood in rows, about half-full of diners who looked to be a mix of monks, priests, and former Crusaders. Beclem's stomach, still unclenching from days of rough seas, started to rumble. Nooj cast him an amused glance, and he scowled in answer. Their new minder didn't stop, though, leading them through the room and into another hallway. He gestured them into a room filled with bunk beds.

"Take any bed that's not made up," he said. "Someone will deliver linens after dinner. You'll be on second mess, which starts in half an hour. Until then, make yourselves at home. Baths are through that door at the back of the room, the rest of the temple complex is at the other end of the hallway we were just in. Interior rooms of the temple are off limits for now, but you're welcome in any of the courtyard spaces. I'll be back tomorrow morning to take you to Trema at eight hundred sharp. Breakfast opens at six. Any questions? See you tomorrow." Once again, he took off before any actual questions could be asked, leaving the recent arrivals to look blankly at one another.

Beclem slung his bag and weapons on an empty top bunk, leaving the one below for Nooj. "Bath," he said to no one in particular, pulling out clean clothes before making his way to the back, eager to wash himself clean of the unpleasant voyage.

-x-

Half an hour later -- scrubbed, changed, and feeling halfway human again -- Beclem headed for the mess hall to complete the transformation. He went through the cafeteria line and selected bread, a mug of ale, and a hearty-looking stew before taking a seat at an empty table. Breaking off a piece of the bread, he dipped it in the soup; the bite halfway to his mouth, he paused at the sound of a chair scraping across the stone floor, and he looked up.

"Anyone sitting here?" The speaker was a man, about Beclem's age and height, deeply tanned with dark hair and eyes, one hand resting on the back of the chair while the other balanced a tray piled with bread and vegetables.

Beclem shook his head and gestured for the newcomer to sit. "Feel free."

"Thanks." The man set down the tray, then sat. "You new?"

"Yes, I just arrived from Kilika. Beclem."

"Welcome to Bevelle. I'm Maroda." He pulled his chair up to the table. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt your supper. Go on, eat. We'll finish introductions later."

With a nod, Beclem returned to the bite he was about to take, popping the bread soaked with gravy into his mouth. Then he forced himself to keep chewing, despite the heavy, greasy taste of the stew. The bread was so tough that it took him much longer than he would have liked to finish the mouthful, and then he had to wash it all down with a huge swig of ale. "Damn!" He looked at Maroda, who looked back with a half-smile. "Chef having an off night?"

Maroda's grin widened. "Haven't eaten in Bevelle before, have you?"

Beclem shook his head. "Just an official state banquet when I was sworn in as a Crusader, and I wasn't paying much attention to the food. They didn't house us at the temple while we were here." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glared at the bowl -- he hadn't noticed the grayish cast to the meat before, but now it seemed to look back at him, mocking him with the promise of a hearty meal marred by a thin sheen of grease on the surface. "I got the impression that things were better in Bevelle, but I guess the fall of Yevon affected even the heart of things."

"Nah." Maroda dipped a spoon into the jar of honey on the table and drizzled it onto a slice of bread, which he had already buttered. "Bevelle Temple has always had terrible food. If anything, it's improved since the Maesters abdicated and gave up their private chefs, who always skimmed the best stuff off the top."

"Hmph." Beclem picked up the spoon and toyed with it. Finally, hunger won out, and he took another bite, this time scoring a potato that had been boiled into tasteless mush. "So, you were stationed in Bevelle? You were a warrior monk? I have to say, you don't have the look of one. But if you were a Crusader, I don't remember ever meeting you."

Maroda shook his head. "Neither. I grew up here. My dad was a priest of St. Bevelle. Still is, kind of. He works for Lord Trema, doing research in the temple archives. Then I stayed here to train as a guardian."

Beclem set down his spoon; he felt it clack against the table. "A guardian? To a summoner?" The stupidity of the question clanked in his ears even as he asked it.

"Yeah. My brother, Isaaru. We were on pilgrimage at the same time as Lady Yuna, although of course she beat us there." Maroda paused, finally seeming to notice Beclem's expression. "What?"

"Nothing." Beclem looked away; he didn't want to get into his feelings about summoners and their guardians here at the dinner table. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maroda shrug and go back to his bread, and he returned somewhat half-heartedly to his stew, regretting his decision to come to Bevelle more with every tasteless, heavy bite. He should have realized that he'd be surrounded by committed Yevonites here, but he hadn't really wanted to think about that. Anything had seemed better than Kilika.

"Maroda?" Beclem turned and looked up at the sound of a new voice as Maroda set down his glass and twisted around in his seat. The newcomer stood behind Maroda, his hand on the back of the chair. "May I?"

Without a pause in his eating, Maroda waved at the chair next to him, then toward Beclem as the other man sat down. "Isaaru, this is Beclem, just arrived from Kilika. Beclem, my brother Isaaru."

Beclem nodded to Isaaru. "My--" He checked the next word that was about to come to his lips, as automatic as breathing. Was the use of the honorific still that deeply ingrained? Now that his brain had engaged, he wasn't sure he could bring himself to say it. An awkward silence fell, lasting long enough that Maroda looked up from his food and raised his eyebrows. Feeling like an ass, Beclem took a breath and started again. "M'lord."

The tension lessened; Maroda finished his bite of bread, and Isaaru shook his head with a sad smile. "Please, just Isaaru." He held no tray, only a glass of water, and he set it down on the table as he lowered himself into the chair. "Welcome to Bevelle."

"Thanks." Beclem looked at Isaaru more closely, then at Maroda again. He'd never seen two brothers who looked less alike -- Isaaru was tall and fair with light eyes and a slight build, mostly hidden by his heavy robes, while Maroda was shorter and stockier with much darker coloring. "You're Maroda's brother?"

The men exchanged a quick glance, and Maroda shrugged before meeting Beclem's eyes. "Same father, different mothers. Same with our younger brother Pacce, who I'm sure you'll meet sooner or later."

"Ah." Beclem nodded to Isaaru. "So, you're a summoner?"

Isaaru winced. "I... was." His hand curled around the glass, and he looked into the distance, eyes unfocused, as a hint of desolation crept into his voice. "When there were still aeons to summon."

Beclem suppressed a groan. Was every summoner in Spira a useless emotional wreck? "You can't really believe that Spira isn't better off without Yevon and the aeons. "

Isaaru turned to look at him, pursing his lips into a hard straight line. "I would not expect you to understand."

"You're right, I don't." Beclem set down his spoon and glared at Isaaru. "A thousand years of summoners sacrificing themselves to a lie? Why would anyone be nostalgic for that?"

Another silence descended: Isaaru turned pale, while Maroda shifted in his seat. Beclem clenched his hand into a fist in his lap, half-dreading the thought of a fight, even while part of him hoped for a confrontation. Maybe he had gone too far, but he found that he wasn't really sorry.

Then Isaaru pushed his glass away. "Pardon me, I have another engagement." The darkness in his eyes cleared as he stood, and he favored Beclem with a small bow. "Beclem, a pleasure. Perhaps we can continue this conversation another time." Then he turned and strode through the hall, every move exuding confidence, showing not even a hint of the emotions that had lined his face a moment before.

Maroda half-turned in his seat to watch Isaaru leave, then tossed back the rest of his drink. "I should be going, too." He stood with a sigh that held more than a touch of exasperation, which he then covered with a polite smile. "See you around." He followed his brother, leaving Beclem alone with a half-eaten meal and a surplus of nervous energy.

-x-

The next morning, the new recruits stood together in the large hall at the center of St. Bevelle. Their minder -- who had finally identified himself with a name: Soren -- had gathered them up early and led them here. Now they stood in a row and waited. Beclem had slept poorly; as a result, he was restless and fidgety. It didn't help matters that his clothes, sent to the laundry shortly after their arrival, had come back overly-starched. He tugged at the stiff sleeve of his uniform jacket and shifted his shoulders, trying to get comfortable, then snuck a glance at Nooj, who stood on his right, unmoving.

Then the door to the balcony opened, and Beclem shaded his eyes against the brilliant sunlight that flooded the room, catching the motes in the dusty air. It took him a moment to register the figure that had entered, a featureless silhouette against the morning sun. Then the door closed with a decisive click, and the newcomer spoke.

"Welcome to Bevelle," he said, his voice echoing off the walls of the large chamber. On the last word, the torches surrounded them flared up, painting the stone and tapestries with their flickering light, and Beclem could see again. Their new leader was elderly and bore more than a passing resemblance to Mika, the former Grand Maester, down to the pointy gray beard and the heavy robes, and Beclem wondered if he was also an unsent. The man opened his arms in a gesture of welcome and benediction, then closed his hands into the prayer position, and bowed to them.

Nooj snorted even as he raised his arm in salute. "I see Yevon has lost none of its taste for drama," he said under his breath, just loud enough for Beclem to hear.

The man rose from his bow, and spoke again. "I am Lord Trema." He stepped forward onto the lift bobbing at the edge of the balcony. Beclem held his salute as the lift made its way across the yawning pit in the middle of the room, then stopped in front of them. Trema disembarked and stood before them. "At ease, my friends," he said with a brisk nod. "We may respect the traditions of the old order here, but we have no desire to recreate them. This is a new Yevon, and I hope we can all work together to retain the best of the past while still looking toward creating Spira's future."

Beclem caught Nooj's eye; Nooj nodded, almost imperceptibly. This was better than Beclem had hoped to hear in Bevelle, but he retained the right to be skeptical.

Trema stepped forward and looked straight at Nooj. "So, you are Nooj. The Undying, formerly of the Crusaders." Nooj raised an eyebrow, and Trema chuckled. "Oh yes, your reputation extended throughout all Bevelle. There was not a warrior monk or official of Yevon who did not know your name. When I heard you were on Kilika, I searched our ranks for any Crusader who had personal acquaintance with you and might be able to bring you to our cause. And you as well, Beclem."

Stunned, Beclem broke ranks to step back, and he stared at the old man. "Me?"

"Of course." Trema nodded at him. "You were key in the planning of Operation Mi'ihen. Misguided as that offensive turned out to be, it showed initiative, creative thinking, a willingness to buck tradition. The old Yevon may not have valued these traits, but I do. Quite highly, in fact. Lucil was the first, and you are the second. I hope to recruit every remaining leader of that mission to the Seekers."

Beclem clenched his jaw. "If you know of my role in Operation Mi'ihen, then you know why I'm not likely to believe anything you say."

Trema spread his arms again. "I do. But it is my hope that you will learn to trust me, and the others of the priesthood who have joined us, in time."

This time, it was Nooj who caught Beclem's eye; Beclem shrugged, and returned to an attentive stance. Trema walked down the rest of the line, asking names and giving words of welcome and reassurance, then returned to the front, Soren taking a place at his side.

"We have two main goals here in Bevelle." Trema placed his hands behind his back. "The first is to keep our fighters well-trained, and the second is to increase our knowledge of Spira's true history. To that second end, we have split our organization into two halves. One is the former priests, nuns, and acolytes who spend their days in the huge, ancient libraries of Bevelle, scouring the books that have languished there too long for information. The second is the Seekers, the group which you have come to Bevelle to join. You will travel Spira in small teams, searching every city, town, and wild place for spheres, wherever they may be hidden. When you find them, you will return them to Bevelle, where the research team will watch them, catalog them, and add them to our growing store of knowledge. Meanwhile, as you travel, you will train and fight fiends, and in that way you will maintain and even improve your fighting skills."

One of the other recruits raised his hand. "But my lord, why do we need to keep fighting, with Sin gone?"

"A fair question." It was Soren who answered; he then looked down at Trema, who motioned him to continue. "Sin may be gone, but the fiends are not. And who knows what other dangers lurk in Spira? Better safe than sorry."

"Indeed." Trema shifted his hands forward, now buried in the folds of his sleeves. "We no longer need a military as large as the one we once had, but it would be foolish to disband entirely."

Beclem smiled to himself -- of everything the old man had said, this made the most immediate and obvious sense.

"So." Trema looked up and down the line. "I will leave you with Soren to receive your assignments. Good luck."

The recruits murmured words of thanks and saluted Trema again; Soren bowed to him, and he left. Then Soren turned back to them, and they all straightened, years of military discipline straightening Beclem's spine and stiffening his arm with no conscious thought -- no one had yet informed them that Soren was in charge of the Seekers, but Beclem knew a commanding officer when he saw one.

"At ease. You'll each be assigned to a different group for now," Soren said. "Once you've learned the ropes, you can form your own teams, probably after you've been on a scouting mission or two. Most people choose to stay with their training team, but it's not required." He pulled several slips of paper out of his coat pocket and passed them down the line. "On this paper is the name of your new group leader. They're waiting for you out in the courtyard, to take you on your first mission. Welcome to the Seekers."

Beclem unfolded the paper, and managed not to laugh with surprise. Next to him, Nooj had crumpled his paper in his fist, and Beclem looked up just in time to see a flash of frustration cross his features. "What?"

Nooj shook his head. "It doesn't matter." He began walking toward the courtyard, and Beclem fell into step with him. "Who is your new commander? You seem pleased."

Beclem thought he caught a note of irritation in Nooj's voice, but he decided to ignore it. "It's just funny; I met this guy at dinner yesterday. He's a former guardian, name of Maroda."

"Guardians." Nooj sniffed. "Failed guardians, no less. It seems this place will take anyone. Almost anyone." He glared at the paper in his hand, which crinkled as his fingers tightened.

There was no mistaking Nooj's tone now, and Beclem pulled up short. "Hey." Nooj stopped, but would not look at him. "What's going on?"

Nooj turned, slowly, his eyes snapping with anger. "It appears that Trema has summoned me to speak with him personally. About a 'special assignment', designed for my 'particular circumstances.' Hmph!" He flung the wad of paper into a corner.

"What?" Beclem looked at Nooj, noting how his metal hand clenched the head of the cane. "Oh."

"Is that all you can say?" Nooj swung his head around, turning his glare onto Beclem. "Of course it is. You agree with them. You think I should be here, chained to a desk in the library, that I'm not good enough for the field anymore."

Taken aback, Beclem stepped away and raised his hands. "Oh, come on. Don't be ridiculous! Of course you should be in the field. Come with me. I'll talk to Maroda about having you on our team."

Nooj's eyes narrowed. "Don't do me any favors," he snapped. "I'll take care of it." He pivoted on his heel and stalked off in the direction that Soren and Trema had gone only moments before. Beclem watched him go, then shook his head, letting out an exasperated sigh. Fine; he'd smooth things over later. It took him a few brisk steps to catch up with the other recruits as they stepped into the courtyard, where Maroda awaited him with a grin.

"Welcome to the team," he said, offering a salute. With only the slightest hesitation, Beclem returned the gesture. "Hope you don't mind that I asked for you."

"I'm just surprised, after yesterday." Beclem dropped his arm and stepped back. "I wasn't sure I'd made the best impression."

Maroda sighed. "Isaaru... has had a rough time, for sure. This business with Lady Yuna and Yevon really shook him. It got to me, too. But it's been months now, and he's barely even left the temple complex. He needs something to shake him out of it, and if it takes a stranger yelling at him in Bevelle mess hall... Well, maybe that's what it takes." He rolled his eyes a little; Beclem thought of his own younger brother and smiled. "Anyway, that's why I asked for you. I like someone who will stand up to power. Now let's get started. C'mon, I'll introduce you to the others." Maroda walked off, and Beclem followed, more than ready to begin.

-x-

Beclem spent the rest of the day getting used to his new surroundings: Maroda introduced him to the other members of his team and gave him a tour of the temple complex, then set him loose to explore the city for the rest of the day. Bevelle was a bustling city, almost as lively as Luca with markets and working docks. The only thing missing was the blitz stadium. It was a pleasant way to while away an afternoon, but Beclem found himself impatient, ready to get down to business, and dinner came as a relief: Maroda gathered the team again for a mission briefing.

"All right." Maroda looked around the table at the team: four Crusaders, two warrior monks, and Beclem. The warrior monks and two of the Crusaders were strangers; the others Beclem knew slightly from Operation Mi'ihen. "Tomorrow, first thing, we're heading for Macalania. We've got one day to search the temple for anything we can find. The priests took as much as they could in the evacuation, but--"

"Evacuation?" Beclem interrupted, raising an eyebrow at Maroda. "What happened?"

Maroda turned to Beclem. "You hadn't heard?" Beclem shook his head. "The temple was suspended in the ice, kept frozen by the fayth's magic. When the fayth passed into the Farplane, the lake started to melt. The ice supporting the building is getting really thin. So it could crash into the bottom of the lake any day now."

Beclem sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Figures. The fayth isn't there to prop up the temple anymore, and it crumbles."

Maroda raised his eyebrows. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"I couldn't have invented a better metaphor." Beclem jutted his chin in the general direction of the temple's main hall. "Yevon was forced to face the truth; Mika abdicated, and the rest fell into chaos."

One of the warrior monks frowned, but Beclem noted that the other Crusaders in the group were nodding. Maroda drummed his fingers on the table but said nothing.

Beclem took a drink, then set his water glass back down. "All I'm saying is that I hope that Trema intends to build his New Yevon on something a little more solid than the fayth."

Maroda sat up, and his brow smoothed. "Fair enough. And uncovering the truth about Spira's past seems pretty solid, yeah?" He looked around the group, and Beclem felt the moment of tension pass. "That's why we're being sent to Macalania: Lord Trema wants a thorough search done before the temple collapses, in case there are any important spheres still there. Other groups have been through the rest of the temple complex. Our mission is search the core of the building itself." He looked around the group. "Any questions?" He looked around the circle, then smiled with satisfaction. "Okay, that's enough from me. Anyone hear about any good finds today?"

-x-

After dinner, Maroda directed Beclem to the armory, where he picked through a selection of weapons, choosing a short sword for close-quarters fighting, then handed over his armor, helm, and pistol for a thorough cleaning. He had expected some resistance over the machina, but the attendant hadn't even blinked while promising to have everything ready first thing in the morning.

She had been as good as her word: the next day, Beclem returned from breakfast to find everything assembled and waiting for him on his bunk, a box of ammo sitting on his pillow. The pistol had been oiled, the sword sharpened, and his bracers, greaves, and helm were polished to perfection, all the dents hammered out and a broken lace in the left bracer repaired. He was already dressed in the rest of his Crusader uniform: boots, leathers, the blue jacket with the light plate sewn over the shoulders. This last he took off to fit the bracers on beneath the sleeves. Once he had strapped them into place, he followed with the greaves, hung the weapons off his belt, and shrugged the jacket back on. Tucking the helm beneath his arm, he saw a motion out of the corner of his eye; he swiveled on his heel toward the source, then laughed out loud.

It was a mirror across the room, catching his own reflection. Beclem had hauled the Crusader uniform for three relocations now, all across Spira, and sometimes he'd asked himself why. The image in the mirror before him provided the answer. Looking at it, he felt more like himself than he had in ages. He walked toward the mirror, a smile spreading across his face as he approached; he turned just enough to see his profile, then faced forward again. His reflection looked back, the smile fading into a look of contentment. This was what he was born for, Beclem thought. He was called to serve Spira in this uniform, not building floating walkways and especially not lazing around in Luca. Coming to Bevelle was looking like a better decision. He tossed his helm into the air, giving it a flip so that it spun in a complete circle. Catching it with both hands, he pulled it down over his head, adjusting the nose cover to bring the eye holes into place, then nodded with pleasure.

"Looking good."

Beclem pivoted in the direction of the voice, then relaxed when he saw that it was only Maroda. "Thanks. It feels good, too."

Maroda nodded. "I remember. When Isaaru cut his pilgrimage short, I was mostly relieved. But I was also kind of disappointed to realize that I might be done fighting for Spira. Then Lord Trema founded the Seekers, and it gave me a purpose again. So I think I know how you feel." He raised an eyebrow. "Am I right?"

"And how." Beclem glanced in the mirror one last time, then stepped away from it, focusing his attention on Maroda. "So, are we ready?"

"Yeah." Maroda gestured toward the door. "The rest of the team should already be waiting in the chocobo stables. Do you ride?" On Beclem's nod, he continued. "Excellent. Macalania, here we come."

-x-

The team mounted up and rode together, out the side entrance and toward the forest, through grasslands blending into the wood and then onto the trails that wound through the wood. The chocobos carried them without complaint, surefooted even on the steep path -- at the stables, Beclem had learned that Bevelle bred and trained birds specifically for making the journey to Macalania. A little over an hour later, they emerged from the forest to see the shore of the frozen lake. Maroda dismounted, and Beclem followed suit, the snow crunching beneath his boots as he landed. They walked the chocobos to the Travel Agency, tucked into the side of the hill, and as he tied his bird's reins to the hitching post where they would wait for the remainder of the day, he noted a small group of tourists gathered by the lake's edge, staring down the path that presumably led to the temple.

"Hey!" The leader of the group ran over to Maroda, tugged at his arm. "The guy in the Travel Agency told me it wasn't safe to go down there; why do you get to go?"

"Salvage mission, sir," Maroda responded, pulling his arm free with a smooth bow. "We're from Bevelle."

"Oh." The man stepped back and gave a half bow in return. "Well, okay. As long as someone is taking care of things there. Feels like things are falling apart, with no one in charge." He returned to his party, and they all crowded around him, eager expressions on their faces, and Beclem wondered how the new Spira felt to all the people on the outside. They seemed ready to grasp at any suggestion of a leader. The thought made him a bit queasy, but he tamped it down as he followed Maroda down the pathway.

They trudged down the frozen walkway, squinting against the brilliance of sun off snow. Ten minutes into their walk, Maroda stopped short, then peered down the trail. "Fiends!"

Beclem craned his head to look around Maroda, and then he saw them: Two snow wolves with an Evil Eye hovering above them. His hand fell to the pistol holstered against his right hip, already drawing the weapon as he judged the distance to the flyer; could he take it out before the fiends even noticed their presence? He lifted his arm, stepping to the side of the rest of the party to clear his shot, then sighted along the barrel before pulling the trigger. He heard Maroda's shout of surprise seconds after the report of gunfire; the Evil Eye then let out a cry, shuddering in midair as it turned its deadly gaze on them. Beclem fired a second shot, and the fiend was down, wings fluttering as it returned to pyreflies.

Maroda stared at Beclem, open mouthed. "You carry a machina weapon?"

Beclem gestured toward the wolves, who were snarling over the disappearing body of their fallen companion. "First things first. We can argue theology later. Are you going in, or can I keep firing?"

The point was made moot as the wolves rushed the party -- it was going to be close combat. Beclem holstered his gun and pulled his sword; he heard Maroda do the same, and then they closed with the wolves. Beclem slashed downward into the first beast's muzzle, but the wolf dodged, snapping at his legs. He just had time to get out of the way; another of the party had run up behind him, and she skewered the wolf on her lowered spear. The wolf howled as it died; a second later, another yelp of pain filled the air as Maroda cut the other wolf's throat.

Maroda straightened, looked around the group. "Everyone okay?" They murmured assent, and his eyes fell on Beclem. "Whatever works," he said. "Just give a little warning next time, okay? We'll talk more later."

Beclem nodded. "Yes, sir."

On the walk down, they encountered two more groups of fiends, which the team dispatched with ease. The sunlight bouncing off the snow created a terrific glare; reaching the darkened entrance to the temple was something of a relief. Once inside, the snowy trail continued, winding through near darkness. Beclem had to blink a few times before he could make out the main door in the pale blue glow of a traveler's sphere, and he hesitated. "Is it safe?"

"So far, so good." Maroda shrugged. "But step carefully, and watch for cracks and slippery ice. Anyone feels any dramatic shifting, give the signal and clear out as soon as possible. Everyone else in the usual teams; Beclem, you're with me."

The group fanned out, each pair heading in a different direction. Maroda started up the stairway in the middle of the room and Beclem followed, testing each tread with care. So far everything seemed stable despite a few ominous creaks from other parts of the building. He reached the landing a step behind Maroda, who paused at the heavy iron door. Although Beclem had never been inside this temple, he could make a pretty good guess at where they were headed: the Cloister of Trials.

Maroda stood frozen to the spot, his hand resting on the doorjamb, his expression distant. With a sigh of impatience, Beclem brushed past Maroda and pushed the door open. The hinges were stiff, and the bottom of the door first dragged, then stuck on something; Beclem leaned his shoulder against the door, putting his full weight behind it, and with a grunt got the door open, creating a gap just wide enough for him to pass.

He slipped through and found himself in a world of white. The walls and floor were made of packed snow, but every surface glistened with water, and puddles sprawled across the floor. Though no torches were visible, a dim light from some unknown source suffused the space, and it was brighter than the rest of the temple. Beclem could hear a soft dripping noise in the distance. Glancing back, he saw that the door had been caught in snow that had melted and refrozen, trapping it in place. He also saw Maroda stepping into the corridor, his eyes better focused now.

"Thanks for getting the door open." Maroda looked around, then fixed his gaze on Beclem. "Sorry about that. It's just weird, being here without Isaaru. I keep thinking about what it was like before, and how once I wouldn't have dared come in here without him."

Beclem shrugged. "Things change."

"So they do." Maroda's gaze dropped, focusing Beclem's sidearm. After a moment's consideration, Beclem drew the weapon and laid it into the flat of Maroda's open palm. He looked up and met Beclem's eyes. "Is that from Operation Mi'ihen?"

"Yeah." Beclem held out his hand to Maroda. "Go on, it won't bite."

Maroda raised an eyebrow. "Inside the temple?" He shook his head. "I know it shouldn't really matter, but..." He took a deep breath, let it out. "Thanks, though; maybe I'll take you up on it later."

"Fine. Although you might change your mind if there are fiends in here." Beclem holstered the gun and turned away from Maroda, looking down the hall. "Where should we start searching?"

"There are some chambers beneath this passageway, accessible via a ramp at the end of that hallway." Maroda frowned. "If the ramp is still there. And we should be careful; the floor here was held up by the temple's magic, and who knows how stable it is with the fayth gone."

Beclem snorted. "Just like the rest of this place. We should probably go one at a time, then, in case it won't bear our combined weight. You wouldn't happen to be a healer, would you?"

"Nope." Maroda shook his head for emphasis. "That was my brother's department."

"Oh well." Beclem took a tentative step forward, then another; the surface seemed solid enough, even though his boots made an ominous squishing noise against the softened snow. "I hope you have a lot of potions." He made his way down the hall, stepping carefully but also quickly, not letting himself settle in any one place for too long. The hallway ended at another stone door, and he could see a ramp made of packed ice to his right, leading down into what looked like a cavernous room. On his left, there was a stone pillar, about waist-high, edged with notches that looked like they would just fit a recording sphere.

No, Beclem realized, they _would_ fit a recording sphere. There was one, on the far side of the pillar and almost buried in the wall, glittering white. This was almost too easy. "Hey, a sphere!" He reached for the treasure.

"Stop!" Maroda shouted; Beclem froze in place and looked up to see Maroda sprinting down the hallway. "Hold on, don't touch it!"

Beclem straightened, waiting for Maroda to reach his side. "Why not? Isn't this why we're here?"

"Not these. That's a Macalania sphere. It's the key the summoners used to unlock the way to the fayth. It's the magic I mentioned, that the fayth used to hold up the floor we just walked on. You take that out, and the whole structure might collapse."

"Or it might not," Beclem retorted. He should have figured that a former guardian would be full of superstitious nonsense about the temples. "If the fayth is gone, how can it still be supporting the floor?"

Maroda nodded to the sphere. "Maybe the magic is in there."

Beclem shrugged. "Only one way to find out." And before Maroda could react, he wrapped his hand around the sphere and pulled it free of the ice that had half-frozen around it. Maroda gasped, then whirled around to stare at the floor as Beclem stepped away from the pedestal, the sphere cold even through his leather glove.

Nothing happened.

Maroda let out the breath he had been holding in a rush, a cloud of steam surrounding his head. Beclem stood by the door and tried not to look too smug; from the expression on Maroda's face as he turned back, he wasn't succeeding very well. But Maroda said nothing, just started down the ramp to the floor below. Halfway down, he turned again.

"Come on," he said. "If I'm remembering right, there are two more of those Macalania spheres down here somewhere, plus a couple of others."

Beclem slipped the sphere into his bag and obliged.

-x-

It took them over an hour to properly search the Cloister of Trials, seeking out every nook, cranny, and small chamber. When they were done, they climbed the ramp, Beclem's bag heavy with four spheres, three of the blinding white Macalania spheres and one other, a green one that Maroda called a glyph sphere. Once they reached the top, Maroda turned the handle of the heavy wooden door, but it twisted uselessly in his hands.

"Locked," he said. "Or the mechanism is frozen. Either way, we aren't getting in there, not without blasting down the door, and I'm afraid if we tried that it might knock the whole temple over." Maroda looked at the stone pedestal, still frozen into the wall. "And there's nothing in there anyway."

Beclem let Maroda sit with his realization for a moment before responding. "No. But this is still a pretty good haul. Let's see if there's anything on this one." Beclem turned the sphere around in his hand, but he could see no sign of the catch one normally pressed to play the contents of a sphere. "This must be really old."

"As old as the temple, at least." Maroda took a step closer to Beclem and looked at the sphere. "Maybe the button is worn down. Or maybe there's nothing recorded on it."

"That's possible, I suppose." Beclem pulled off his gloves and ran his fingers over the sphere's surface, hard as ice and almost as cold. It winked at him, the center glittering a pure white that was almost too bright to look directly into. Finally, his finger caught in a depression barely a millimeter deep, and he glanced at Maroda with a triumphant grin. "Ha! Got it. Ready to see what's on here?" Maroda nodded, a touch slowly, but Beclem pretended not to see his hesitation. "Okay." Beclem pressed his finger into the depression, and held the sphere out so that he and Maroda could both watch.

The brilliance at the center dimmed, then faded away altogether. In its place, Beclem saw a woman standing in the center of a round room, flanked by what appeared to be two warrior monks in red uniforms. The shapeless robes of a nun covered her completely, leaving only her face visible. There were several other men and women in the room, standing in a circle around the woman.

"That's the antechamber beyond the Cloister of Trials," Maroda whispered. "On the other side of that door behind us."

Beclem nodded, not taking his eyes from the sphere. The recording was ancient, marred with static and skips, and there was no sound, but the images were easy enough to make out. One of the men, apparently a priest, raised his arms over his head and said a few words. Then he turned and walked up a small flight of stairs and through a door. The nun followed him, her head held high, the monks walking by her side. As the door closed behind them, a heavy stone panel falling from the ceiling, one of the bystanders fell to his knees, reaching out to the door, his face a mask of pain as he cried out. The woman next to him wrapped her arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. Beclem had only a moment to wonder at this interplay before the scene froze on that image, then disappeared, replaced once again by the white light of the sphere.

"She can't be a summoner," Maroda muttered. "Not with that mob of people around."

"Right." Beclem pulled another white sphere from his pouch. "Maybe there's more on this one." The playback catch was easier to find this time, and as Beclem pressed it, the scene reformed, this time in a smaller room, its walls painted with the symbols of Yevon. The woman stood at the center of the room, the monks still at her side, her expression serene. The priest paced a slow circle around her, chanting -- there was sound this time, and though he couldn't be certain through the churn of ancient static, Beclem thought it might be the Hymn of the Fayth -- and then he stopped directly in front of the woman. He spoke a few words; the woman nodded, then closed her eyes and lifted her arms high, her hands opening to the ceiling. The monks stepped forward and then ripped the robes from her body, tearing them into jagged halves to reveal her nearly naked body, covered now only by a thin blue skirt and her long hair: bound into several braids, it fell past her waist. She did not move, or even appear to shiver in the wintry air. Instead, she began singing along with the priest, her voice clear and beautiful. Slowly, she lowered her arms and brought them out before her. The priest laid a thick silver chain across her hands, then bowed his head, folding his hands in prayer as he stepped away from her. And she began... to change.

Beclem had no better words to describe what he was seeing. Her skin, already light in color, began to shimmer and harden and lighten further, starting with her toes and moving up her legs, then into her torso and down her arms. Even as the color leached from her arms, it intensified in her clothes and hair, turning them a brilliant blue. With a thrill of horror, Beclem suddenly realized what was happening: The woman was turning into stone, becoming the fayth of Macalania Temple. Her breaths came faster, shallower, but she kept singing, even as she toppled forward, fell to her knees, landed face-first in the shallow pit at the center of the room. The braids in her hair spilled outward, forming a sunburst pattern around her head. Her arms and legs twitched violently, then stopped, but the singing continued; the priest knelt by her side, ran his fingers over a stone braid, and bowed his head as the scene faded away.

"Damn," Beclem breathed as he looked up, tearing his eyes from the white light of the sphere. "That was..." Beautiful? Terrible? Both. He turned to Maroda, looking to get his opinion, but Maroda was still staring at the sphere, his eyes fixed on it, round with what appeared to be horror. His face had turned ashen, and his hands were balled into fists. Beclem hesitated, then laid his hand on Maroda's shoulder. "You okay?"

"The fayth." Maroda stammered out the words. "That-- she was-- if that's what it's like--" He covered his eyes with a hand and moaned. "Yevon save me."

And then Beclem understood -- Isaaru had been a summoner. Maroda had been his guardian. If Isaaru had attained the Final Summoning, then Maroda...

He gave Maroda's shoulder a firm shake. "You were saved. We were all saved. Not by Yevon. From Yevon." Maroda looked up, meeting Beclem's eyes with a bleak stare. "Yevon did that to people. And now no one ever has to become a fayth ever again."

Maroda took a deep breath, shuddered, then nodded, and Beclem dropped his hand and stepped away. "You're right. Of course you're right. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Beclem gestured to the door. "Now let's get out of here while we still can." He followed Maroda, picking his steps carefully across the floor, which looked more treacherous than it had only an hour ago. He breathed more easily on reaching the stone stairway, but still he walked slowly until they were outside again.

-x-

The return trip to Bevelle was uneventful, and by the time they returned to the temple, the dinner hour was almost over. Maroda stayed with the team as far as the chocobo stables; once they had left the birds with their minders, he gathered them into a circle yet again. "Do I have everyone's spheres?" The other teams had turned up half a dozen others from different parts of the temple, including the sphere that Lord Jyscal had recorded to implicate Lord Seymour in his murder -- Beclem had been impressed to witness that bit of history for himself. Sons murdering fathers, fathers accusing sons: more proof that Yevon had been rotten to the core.

Maroda looked around the group and excused them to the evening meal. He held Beclem back with a look. "Thanks for your help today. You still up for that target practice? Maybe after breakfast tomorrow, assuming Lord Trema doesn't give me another urgent assignment after I turn these over?"

"Sure."

"Great." Maroda slapped Beclem's shoulder. "Welcome to the team. Again. See you tomorrow morning." And then he was gone, leaving Beclem a few steps behind his new teammates. He entered the mess hall and moved to join them at the table they'd selected at the center of the room; then he saw Nooj, seated alone, out of the main flow of traffic.

Beclem stepped out of the stream of men and women exiting the hall and debated with himself. Nooj had not been in his bunk when Beclem had gone to sleep the night before, and the bed had already been made when he got up. Where had Nooj been for the past day and a half? Beclem was concerned, but he held back. Did he really want to subject himself to another fit of temper?

Taking a deep breath, he made his way to the table and let his hand fall on the chair across from Nooj. Then he cleared his throat.

Nooj looked up, expression solemn but not angry. "Good hunting?" he asked.

"I'll tell you all about it if you like." Beclem paused. "Did you clear things up with Trema?"

Nooj's eyes narrowed. "My initial guess was correct: Trema assumed that I would prefer to join the research team, rather than hunt spheres in the field." He snorted. "Because of my 'condition'."

Beclem could hear two years of anger in Nooj's voice as he spat out that last word. "That's crazy," he said, shaking his head in sympathy.

"I know." Nooj met Beclem's eyes. "And I know that you wouldn't think otherwise." It was as close to an apology as Nooj ever got, and Beclem accepted it with a solemn nod. "Well. We spoke, and I... disabused him of that notion. He promised to speak with Soren about finding me a team tomorrow."

"Good." Beclem hesitated, then dropped into the empty chair. "But before you let anyone else decide that for you, I have an idea. See, we went to Macalania Temple today, and made a really interesting discovery." And he proceeded to tell Nooj about the temple spheres and the story they told.

When he had finished, Nooj leaned forward on his elbows, brow furrowed. "Fascinating," he said. "So Maroda thinks every temple will have these?"

"That's what he says, yeah. And we're going to go get them." Beclem sat up, noting the gleam in Nooj's eye with great satisfaction. "You should come with us. We'll go back to Kilika, and to Djose and Besaid. And maybe even--"

"Zanarkand." Nooj exhaled, sitting up so straight that Beclem half-expected to see him salute. "Can that truly be possible, that I might see Zanarkand?"

Beclem shrugged. "Don't see why not. We just need to get someone free enough of superstition to take us there."

"Zanarkand." Nooj repeated the name yet again, as though he were testing the sound of it, and his eyes focused on something very far away. Then he snapped back to attention, looking at Beclem with a curious expression of longing. "Yes. I will come with you. Assuming your team leader will have me."

"He will." Beclem nodded.

Nooj drummed his metallic fingers on the tabletop, the thump audible throughout the emptying hall. "Then I will speak with Maroda in the morning, and we'll convince Trema together."

"Sounds like a plan." Beclem grinned at his friend, and then stood up to hit the cafeteria line, looking more forward to the next day than any other time he could remember.


	5. The Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The life of a Seeker is rarely dull.

"Well?" Beclem stood up from the table as Maroda entered the mess hall, Nooj half a step behind him. They had gone to a morning conference with Trema and Soren to present the plan that Beclem had hatched with Maroda the night before, to go hunting for spheres in the temples.

Maroda grinned, and held out a closed fist. "We're in. Pack your bags; we leave for Zanarkand in a week."

"I never actually unpacked them." Beclem bumped Maroda's outstretched knuckles with his own. "But why wait so long?"

Nooj reached the table and took a seat. "I want to wait for Lucil to return, see if she's already explored Kilika Temple. Might save us a wasted trip. Also, I thought she might want to join our expedition."

Beclem sat back down. "Makes sense." Maroda took the third chair, on Beclem's other side. "So, what to do in the meantime?"

Nooj cradled a coffee cup in his hands. "Plan our journey and do as much research as we can. And get back into fighting shape. I haven't fired a gun in months."

"Right. Which reminds me." Beclem turned to Maroda. "Still interested in that target practice?"

Maroda sat up. "For sure," he said. "But where can I get a weapon?"

Beclem gestured toward the door. "Try the armory. I got mine cleaned yesterday, and it's clear someone knew what they were doing."

"Machina weapons in the Bevelle armory." Maroda sighed and shook his head. "There's so much we didn't know about Yevon."

"We'll shine a light on all the places the Maesters wanted hidden," Nooj said, sitting up even straighter than usual, steeled with determination. "Isn't that why we're here?"

"Well said." Beclem grinned at Nooj, then looked at Maroda. "I'll go to the armory with you, help you pick out a weapon. Nooj, meet us in the courtyard in half an hour, and we'll get this party started."

-x-

Three days later, Beclem and Nooj walked down to the docks to meet the boat that Lucil and Elma were to arrive on. They had spent most of that time on the Calm Lands firing range, recovering their own shooting skills and teaching the basics to Maroda and the rest of the team. One of Beclem's new teammates, a woman named Arla, had been a weapons trainer at Operation Mi'ihen, so she brought her own experiences to the table as well. Already, Maroda had learned well enough to pick off a flying eye at fifty paces, and the others were all improving. Beclem was hopeful for their upcoming mission, and looking forward to some nice uncomplicated battles against fiends.

The ship had been visible in the distance for some time now, and Beclem shielded his eyes against the glare of afternoon sun on water, trying to get a better glimpse of who might be standing on the deck. He thought he could see them, perched at the rail, Elma's bright jacket and Lucil's red hair like beacons. Beclem was surprised at how much he was looking forward to seeing them both -- Elma had become a friend in Kilika, and he'd had a good working relationship with Lucil during the planning stages of Operation Mi'ihen. There were familiar faces in Bevelle, but no one he thought of as a comrade except for Nooj. Although perhaps Maroda would come to fill that role, in time. For the first time since the Operation, he missed Luzzu. It had always been the three of them together: Beclem, Luzzu, and Nooj, from their very earliest days in the Crusaders. Had Luzzu gone home to Besaid? But then why hadn't he sent word with the courier who'd gone from Kilika to meet with the High Summoner?

Beclem shook his head. Where had that bout of nostalgia come from? Probably the days spent in training, he decided, and the planning for a mission, something he'd so often done with Luzzu: swapping ideas, sparring together. With a snort of derision at himself, he closed his eyes, banished the thought, then opened them just in time to see Lucil's boat pulling into the dock. She was striding down the gangplank before the ropes were even secured, Elma and half a dozen other former Crusaders behind her, smiling broadly.

"Welcome back," Nooj said as Lucil came up to him, hand outstretched. They clasped hands, and then salutes were exchanged all around. "I see you brought some friends."

"Indeed." Lucil glanced around the group, looking pleased. "Our early scouting trips on the island were quite fruitful, enough that we drew many more recruits. I feel somewhat guilty, to be honest, pulling so many away from the rebuilding effort, but Kal assures me that enough able bodies remain to at least prepare the port for winter."

"Good," Nooj said. "I also spoke to Trema about rotating the carpenters working on rebuilding Bevelle through Kilika, and he seemed receptive." Beclem started; Nooj hadn't mentioned that to him. He hoped that Nooj wasn't primed to volunteer them both to take another tour of duty there. If he ever saw another island jungle again, it would be too soon.

After a silent communication with Lucil, Elma gathered up the six other recruits. "This way," she called, indicating the direction with a single wave over her head. After waiting for the main group to pass, Lucil fell into step between Beclem and Nooj.

"So," she said, "how are you finding the Seekers?"

"Very worthwhile, so far." Nooj looked over Lucil's head, caught Beclem's eye. "Tell her about your find."

Beclem gave Lucil a thumbnail description of his visit to Macalania Temple, then explained the contents of the spheres he and Maroda had found. "And so we want to visit the rest of the temples," he concluded. "Starting with Zanarkand. It's an ambitious project, but we think it has the potential to gain us a lot of knowledge about the history of the temples. And we'd like both you and Elma on the team."

Lucil said nothing, but her gait slowed as she became lost in thought. When she finally spoke again, they had almost reached the temple, and she stopped short of the door. "Does it not seem... wrong, to you? The idea of pillaging the temples that way?"

"Whatever was in those temples is gone," Beclem replied. "They're little more than museums now, monuments to the old order. You mean you didn't explore the temple at Kilika?"

"No." Lucil frowned. "The thought didn't even occur to me."

"I promise, it's worth it. You'll see." Beclem glanced back to Nooj. A little disappointing, if Lucil was still in thrall to the temples. But he supposed not every had taken the same lessons from Operation Mi'ihen. He thought of Luzzu again, and suppressed a sigh.

"Take a little time to decide, if you need it," said Nooj. He turned to face Lucil, who looked up at him. "If you choose to serve the Seekers elsewhere, I respect that. I'm sure you had your own plans before we met you here today."

Lucil saluted Nooj, then Beclem. "I thank you. I'd like to speak with Elma first, of course, but I'm sure you want to get started right away. I'll have you an answer tomorrow morning."

-x-

Shortly after sunrise, the team gathered around the breakfast table. Lucil and Elma were both there, seated next to Maroda, making small talk. Beclem took a chair on the other side of Elma, tray of food in hand. "So, you've decided to join us?"

Elma and Lucil exchanged a look, from which Beclem could imagine an hour-long conversation. "Maroda showed us the spheres," Lucil said. "We couldn't say no after that."

"Good." Beclem leaned back in his chair. "Now we can talk travel arrangements. Are we still planning to go by ship?"

"It's only logical," Nooj replied. "The only other way is to cross the Calm Lands on foot, then climb Gagazet. That could take weeks; a boat should get us there in only a few days."

Beclem frowned. No one had traveled by boat to Zanarkand since the Machina Wars. The Al Bhed airship had reportedly been there a few times, but that was a far cry from navigating the northern seas. "We should visit the library and see if they have maps."

"Any maps in the library are going to be a thousand years out of date, at best," Maroda pointed out.

"Perhaps." Nooj's brow furrowed. "Perhaps not. Who knows what clandestine trips the leaders of Yevon were making during that time? But either way, the maps should be in the archives. As soon as we're done eating, we'll go."

Fifteen minutes later, they walked together down the stone halls of St. Bevelle, a few steps behind Maroda, who was leading them to the library. The animated discussion in the mess hall had faded into silence but for an occasional murmured exchange as Lucil pointed out a historical artifact, or Maroda called out directions. Beclem was coming to like Bevelle's city well enough, and their quarters were comfortable, but the main temple complex still felt foreign to him. Something about the heavy walls, covered with rich tapestries depicting Yevonite pictograms, discouraged conversation.

The feeling continued as they entered the library: a heavy wooden door led into a large reading room with walls made of blue-gray stone, plush rugs on the floors, and bookcases stretching toward the vaulted ceiling. Beclem leaned close to the books and noted that many of them were covered with dust. "Guess those didn't see much use."

"Not under the maesters," a familiar mellow voice replied. Beclem turned around to see Isaaru standing next to him, his hands buried in his sleeves. "Hello again, Beclem." His smile was warm, but Beclem still shuffled away, the memory of their first meeting strong enough that he wasn't comfortable pretending to be Isaaru's buddy. "Maroda, Lucil." He made a brief bow to the group. "And you must be Nooj."

"I am," Nooj said. "But I'm afraid you have the advantage of me, sir."

Maroda stepped forward. "Nooj, Elma, this is my brother Isaaru. He's been working in the archives for some time now. I told him about our plans, and he's going to connect us with the researcher who's the most knowledgeable about Zanarkand."

"That's right." Isaaru indicated an open doorway through the rows of bookshelves. "No one is more familiar with our documents on ancient Zanarkand than Baralai. He can prepare you for your journey better than anyone here. If you'll come with me, please." He gestured toward the door; Lucil and Elma walked past him, then Maroda. Beclem started to follow, then noticed that Nooj hadn't moved.

"You coming?"

"I. Ah." The blood had drained from Nooj's face, and he swayed, his gaze fixed on something in the distance, as though he was trying to stare a hole through the wall with his eyes. He looked like he was going to be sick.

Beclem took a step closer to Nooj, wondering if he should put out a hand to steady him. "You all right?"

"What?" Nooj's chin snapped downward. "Yes, yes, I'm fine." The color was already returning to his cheeks, and once again Beclem wondered if he was imagining things. "I only just remembered that I have an appointment with Trema. Go ahead; I'll catch up with you later." Without another word, he turned on his heel and marched out of the library.

Beclem watched him go. Nooj was getting stranger every day.

-x-

The morning spent in the library had been fruitful, as were the two following. With the help of Baralai, the team discovered maps, old travelogues, and guides to the ancient city and its likely current state. It was exciting to pore over them, but also creepy, especially in the stifling environment of the old temple's archives, and Beclem was glad to get out each afternoon for more weapons practice. Being able to take out fiends: that was what would get them through Zanarkand, not a bunch of outdated stories.

It seemed that Nooj agreed, despite his words at breakfast the first day, because he had found another errand to occupy his time during each of their library visits, meeting them afterwards on the training ground. It seemed odd that Nooj's enthusiam for research had dried up so suddenly, and Beclem spent must of his first morning in the library worrying at the question of why, with no solution presenting itself. Reluctantly, he had decided to let it go; if Nooj didn't want to talk about what had happened to him over that year, it was his business. A little sad, to feel that he no longer knew his best friend -- but then Nooj would make a wry crack, or roll his eyes at someone's stupidity, or shoot down a nebiros without hardly looking, and it all came back, as though they were still on Mushroom Rock Road, tramping down trails and looking for Sinspawn. Maybe once they got back out in the field, it would be easier.

Soon enough, that day came, and the search party gathered on the city docks. Although most boat traffic came to Bevelle from the west, a disused canal connected the city to an older port on the eastern side of the land bridge. Beclem stood on the dock and contemplated its rusted locks.

"Too bad it doesn't work anymore. I wonder if we could get some Al Bhed here to look at it."

Nooj shrugged. "Not yet much call for people to visit Zanarkand. Perhaps in the future, depending on what we find."

"At least we'll only lose a day or so, having to go around." Beclem followed Nooj up the gangway and onto to the deck of the ship, where Maroda and the rest of the team were waiting. "Are we ready?"

"Yeah. Just checked in with the captain, and we are go " Maroda smiled, then looked around the group, counting heads. "All right. Let's get underway." He waved a hand in the air, and the sailors in the back began to winch up the anchor, the chain clinking against the reel. Beclem turned around to watch, noted how the sailors struggled with the heavy anchor, and wondered if machina might not become standard issue aboard all ships soon, not just Al Bhed ones. It would be a good sign of progress, he thought, like the slow but steady adoption of machina weapons.

The ship pulled away from the dock, and with only a brief glance back at Bevelle, Beclem made his way to the bow and leaned on the rail, closing his eyes and letting the wind touch his face. Finally, a mission he could get behind. It had been long enough in coming.

-x-

That evening, as the sun sank below the horizon, Beclem found himself sitting on the benches around the prow, feeling the wind on his face and watching Nooj, who had installed himself at the top of the stern at the start of the journey and seemed to have barely moved since. Beclem had considered striking up a conversation, but something about the stiffness of Nooj's posture kept him away. So he relaxed instead, letting the soothing sounds of the rushing wind and water lull him into a comfortable rest.

"Hey." Maroda sat down next to him. He lifted his chin in Nooj's direction, and his next words were spoken in a near-whisper. "Has he said anything yet?"

Beclem shook his head. "Not since we left."

"Huh." Maroda settled back on his arms and kicked his legs out in front of him. "How well do you know him, anyway?"

Beclem looked up the deck to Nooj one more time, and all his unease from that first day in the library came rushing back. "I used to know him as well as I know myself. That's what happens when you have a man's back in battle for years on end." He glanced to Maroda. "But I suppose you know how that is, from being in the guardian business."

"Yeah."

"We joined the Crusaders at the same time, Nooj and I." Leaning back against the rail, Beclem settled in to tell the story, one he hadn't thought about in many years. "In the same training battalion. At first I thought he was a punk kid, obviously lying about his age, and that no one that arrogant could be good enough to back it up. I figured he'd be sent home within a week." He snorted. "Was I ever wrong. Not about the lying -- he really was underage -- but the skills were for real. No one was as good as Nooj. No one." Pausing, he tried to think of some way to describe just how amazing a fighter Nooj had been, but nothing seemed adequate to the task, so he continued instead. "Anyway, when training ended, we drew assignments to the same squad, based at the Mushroom Rock command, and we became close friends. We learned together, fought together, rose up through the ranks together. And then-- we almost died together. At the Djose Shore." Beclem stopped, the memories of that terrible battle pressing close in, choking off his words. He closed his eyes, all the scenes he had worked so hard to banish springing to mind before he could stop them: Sin looming so high, blocking out the sky, the rising wind, the air sharp with ozone, wading through a sea of Sinspawn with a sword in one hand and a gun in the other, blood and sweat and salt spray dripping into his eyes, Chappu staring dead into the sky. "It was the worst day of my life. But at least I walked away. Almost nobody else did. Not even Nooj."

Maroda's eyes went wide. "You mean..."

Beclem looked away. "Yeah. That's when... it happened. I found him, after, and-- it was terrible. Terrible." That memory was the worst of all: Nooj's mangled body buried among the heaps of Sinspawn corpses, rotting in the hot afternoon sun. Beclem swallowed and forced himself to continue. "There wasn't much left; he had to be dead. I was certain of it. And then he opened his eyes, and he looked at me." He turned to stare at Maroda. "I hope you never see anyone in the kind of agony."

"In the name of Yevon," Maroda whispered. "It sounds... I can't even imagine."

"Good. You're better off." Beclem averted his eyes briefly, gathered his composure, then went on. "I screamed for help, and our buddy Luzzu helped me carry him to the temple. After we handed him off to the healers, I was sure I would never see him again. And I-- I don't really know what happened next. How they kept him alive, how he got the machina replacements. There were lots of rumors, but by the time he was healed enough for visitors, he wasn't talking. I've never asked him about it, and I probably never will."

"Don't blame you." Maroda glanced sideways at Nooj. "There were rumors about him, after. Rumors that he. Um. How do I put this?"

"That he's a Deathseeker?" Beclem ignored Maroda's recoil. "He's never said anything about it in so many words. But... as soon as he came back on duty, he started volunteering for the most dangerous missions. Not that he ever shirked from danger before or anything. But this was different. If you had to ask me, I'd say yes. Or that he was, anyway." Beclem frowned. "Now? Now I don't know. But I do know that he'd never do anything to purposefully put the rest of us in danger."

"Okay." Maroda looked at his hands. "Guess a guardian doesn't really have anything to say about a soldier who chooses a path of certain death to help others, does he?"

"Not really." Beclem spread his arms wide. "But with Yevon gone, no one needs to make that choice anymore. And maybe we never really did."

-x-

The shout came down from the lookout post on the third day. "Land! Land ahoy!"

Beclem scrambled up from below decks, braced his stomach against the rail and leaned forward, far forward, until he felt himself starting to tip. He grabbed the rail to steady himself, but he couldn't look away. There it was: Zanarkand, city of legend, little more than a pile of rubble in the distance. Even from here, in daylight, he could see odd bands of glowing light. Pyreflies? He hoped it was that, not something more sinister.

Maroda came up on Beclem's left and made an odd, strangled noise.

Beclem glanced at him. "You okay?"

"Sorry," Maroda said. "It's just weird, coming here this way. In a ship, without my brother. I always thought it would be him and me, y'know?"

"Aren't you glad it isn't?" Beclem tried to keep the edge out of his voice, but didn't entirely succeed.

"Yes... yes. Well-- of course I am. After that sphere..." Maroda trailed off, whatever he might have said next lost in a morass conflicted emotions.

"Anyway, we're almost here. I'll go get Nooj." Beclem left Maroda alone with his unexpected sentimentality and walked across the deck to knock on the cabin door. "Hey, Nooj! Zanarkand!"

The heavy thumping of Nooj's uneven ship-board gait came from the room, faint at first, then growing louder, then stopped when he opened the door. Even after all these months, it was still strange for Beclem to notice Nooj having trouble getting around. "Good, now we shall see--"

Beclem had already turned his attention to the coastline, but the sudden silence surprised him enough to look back. Nooj was frozen in the doorway, his mouth set into a hard line, his right hand gripping the door jamb so hard that his knuckles were turning white.

"What?"

"Zanarkand." The word was a whisper, barely loud enough to be heard over the sounds of water and wind and shouting sailors, even though Beclem was right by his side. "What happened?"

Beclem cocked his head to the side. "What do you mean, 'what happened?' Someone not paying enough attention at temple? It's been a ruin for a thousand years. What were you expecting, a bustling metropolis?" Of all the odd reactions he'd seen from Nooj lately, this was one of the weirdest. Maybe Nooj had gotten more of a knock on the head from Sin than anyone had realized. Damage to his memory... it would explain a lot, but neither was it a possibility Beclem wanted to think about.

"I..." Nooj closed his eyes, then opened them with a twitch of his shoulders. "Of course not. I was only wondering if we had an idea of where to drop anchor."

Would it do any good to confront him over these lapses? Probably not, Beclem decided. Nooj had never taken well to being questioned, about anything. Best just to proceed for now, and keep an eye out. "I went over the map with the pilot, and there's one area that's pretty clearly the docks. So that's where we're headed."

"Very good." Nooj took an unsteady step toward the railing. "How long?"

"Maybe twenty minutes." Beclem took his place beside Nooj, watching the ruins grow larger. The rest of the party soon joined them, a hush falling over the entire group. Even the sailors seemed subdued in their preparations for arrival, and the silence followed them through the process of docking and disembarking from the ship, footsteps oddly muffled on the concrete walkways.

As they left the ship behind them, Beclem pulled out the map that the researcher Baralai had drawn for them, cobbled together from ancient texts and the accounts of the few guardians who had visited the city and come back to tell the tale. "The temple is in the ruins of the blitzball stadium," he said, his voice still hushed. To keep any fiends from hearing them, or so he told himself. "Summoners and guardians would enter the city from here." He pointed on the map to the isthmus that connected Zanarkand to the slope of Mount Gagazet. "But we're over on the north edge, much closer to the stadium. So we just need to go through the dock area, then come around to the entrance."

"Then that's what we'll do." Nooj looked up, squinting against the sun. "Beclem, will you take the lead?"

"Sure." Beclem folded the map and stuffed it in his back pocket. "The stadium was the heart of the city, so most of the streets head in roughly that direction. Let's try this one." The shape of the buildings reminded Beclem of the ruins along the Highroad, but the layout of the plan put him more in mind of Luca, where all roads also lead to the blitzball stadium. A people after his own heart.

The city was quiet, and so were its visitors. The looming buildings, the piles of rubble, steeped in age and pyreflies, deadened both thought and conversation. No one spoke as they walked, save for Beclem as he occasionally commented on a direction, unfolding the map, its crinkle loud in the still air. The weight of tragedy and of history was almost too much to bear, and Beclem found himself wishing for a fiend or two to break the mood. But they passed without challenge, and after half an hour they found themselves in an open plaza in front of the entrance to the broken dome.

This, Beclem realized as he looked up at its ancient, cracked surface, was the source of the pyreflies he had seen from the ship. It pulsed with an eerie light, ribbons of pyreflies swooping through the air. He shuddered -- he hadn't been nervous at all, entering the temple at Macalania, but something about this place felt very different. More history? More ghosts?

"More likely, this city is a mass grave and the idea is just creeping me out," he muttered under his breath. "Snap out of it!"

"What?" Maroda, who was at his left shoulder, turned to look at him.

"Nothing," Beclem said. He gestured toward the door, cracked open, that led inside the dome. "That way."

He walked forward, pushing through his own unease, then stopping by the door to let the others pass by him. All went through except Nooj; Beclem turned to see him, several paces away, looking up at the wall of pyreflies and still as a statue.

"Nooj?" Beclem was at his side in an instant. "What is it?"

Nooj just shook his head, apparently unable to look away. "The pyreflies... so many..." He said something more, too quiet for Beclem to catch. Beclem thought he saw actual fear flicker through Nooj's eyes, a sight so disturbing that he wanted to step away.

Instead, he took a deep breath and risked laying a hand on Nooj's arm. "It's too much like the cave. The one with the Crimson Squad."

"Perhaps so." Nooj blinked slowly, then looked down at Beclem. "A foolish notion. My apologies."

"It's okay." Beclem let out his breath in relief. Of course, the massing pyreflies. They'd had Nooj spooked since the ship; that would explain his odd reactions there, too. "C'mon, let's join the others."

The hush prevailed as Beclem and Nooj entered the dome, picking their way through debris and over collapsed walkways. Still no fiends, but the pyreflies had begun to cluster into glowing pockets that seemed almost sinister. Beclem tried to avoid them, but it wasn't always possible; the first time he brushed close to one, he was startled to hear voices. He stopped dead, then turned to look at Nooj. "Did you--"

"Shh!" Nooj held up a hand. The pyreflies clustered together, coalescing into a woman with long dark hair and a slight blond man, a man who resembled--

"Tidus?" Maroda muttered the name, started to step forward.

Elma stopped him with a firm hand to his shoulder. "No. But it sure does look like him."

Nooj's head snapped to the side, his eyes glittering. "I said quiet!" The words came out nearly as a hiss. "I want to hear."

"--a tournament at a time like this," the man was saying, his tone heated. "When Bevelle is attacking, and Yu Yevon is ordering the summoners to battle? How can I screw around here, playing blitzball, while you're on the front lines?"

The woman hand rested gently on his shoulder, and she smiled up into his eyes. "The people need it. They can't all be out there, fighting. They need a reason to cheer while they wait. You can give them that."

The man shook the woman off, and her mouth twisted. "They need an end to this war. I can give them that, too." He turned around and strode away; she ran after him, calling out something that was lost to the mists of history as they faded in the distance.

Stunned silence reigned for a long moment. Finally, Beclem cleared his throat. "What," he said, "in the hell. Was that?"

No one replied for a moment, and then Maroda responded, slowly. "I think. I think Isaaru said that the pyreflies in the dome hold memories. That must be the memory of someone who was here. From what they said, it must have been during the Great War."

"Memories," Nooj whispered. "Yes..." He took half a step forward, in the direction the figures had disappeared, then froze again. "Memories."

"Well," said Maroda, in the tones of a command, and Nooj relaxed, just a hair. "We should get moving again. Try to avoid any more of the pockets of pyreflies. And hurry. We..."

Beclem heard Maroda's advice, but it was already too late; in stepping back from the first vision, he found himself stumbling into a second, face-to-face with someone he knew all too well: Maester Kinoc. A little younger, a little thinner than the man Beclem had known, but Kinoc all the same.

"Should we be here?" Kinoc looked straight through Beclem and into the distance as his words echoed in the ancient hall. "We aren't summoners or guardians, and we didn't undertake a pilgrimage."

Kinoc's companion shimmered into existence; it was Grand Maester Mika, hands in his sleeves, stooped forward. "You need to see this, to truly understand the truths which I have explained to you. She has made an exception to the rules for the Maesters of Yevon -- we will be allowed to pass. Come, it is not too much farther now."

Like the last vision, the figures dissolved after their first step forward, leaving only Beclem, shaking in his anger. "They knew. They knew, and they did nothing to stop it!"

Lucil looked at him, her expression both rueful and puzzled. "So we were told."

"It's one thing to be told. It's another to see the evidence with my own eyes." Beclem brought a hand to his face and breathed deep, despite the stale air, forcing himself to calmness. "I thought my respect for Yevon could fall no further, but apparently I was wrong." A surge of anger gave him new energy, and he began to walk forward, faster, with stronger purpose. "Let's get some spheres."

-x-

It was a very productive trip, all told: the temple had given them six spheres, each with the image of a person talking about their decision to become a fayth. The last appeared to be Lord Zaon himself, the first fayth of the Final Summoning, and it was awe-inspiring and chilling to see him speak so calmly about the scheme he and his wife Yunalesca had devised together. The team had worked their way through the temple sanctum and then back out again, steering clear of the pyreflies and speaking only the minimum number of words to accomplish the task at hand. Stepping back onto the deck of the ship was a relief; Beclem felt all his tension slipping away as he flopped himself down on a bench near the bow.

The rest of the team followed, filing up the gangway, each taking a place on the bench near him. Maroda sat on his left, the full sphere pouch resting in his lap; Nooj, who had been last aboard, settled on his right and stared straight forward, eyes vacant, lips pursed. The silence had followed them out of the dead city, and the sound of a throat clearing took Beclem by surprise. He looked up into the puzzled face of the ship's captain, who stood in front of them, head tipped to the side.

"Sirs?" He looked from Maroda to Nooj and back again. "Are you camping aboard ship tonight? I wasn't expecting you back until tomorrow."

Maroda leaned forward, craning his head around Beclem to look at Nooj. He raised his eyebrows, and Nooj nodded. Then Maroda stood and faced the captain. "No camping. We leave now," he said. "If the tides will allow. We've found all we're going to find, on this journey."

The captain's manner shifted from surprised to brisk. "As you say, sir. The tides and winds are favorable, and all the sailors are aboard -- no one wanted shore leave, in this place. We'll be underway within moments." He turned away, and though he was too professional to say so, Beclem could see relief in the set of his shoulders.

-x-

"Well, he seemed pleased." Beclem had waited until they were some distance from Trema's office before venturing this opinion. He stepped into the light with Nooj and Maroda -- the rest of the team had dispersed after the ship had docked, taking the day of leave that Maroda had granted.

"Indeed." As they emerged into Bevelle's courtyard, Nooj tipped his face up to the sun and closed his eyes for a moment. "We should set plans for visiting the remaining temples when we gather again tomorrow. Meanwhile, a recruiting ship is scheduled to land soon; shall we go observe?"

Beclem grinned at him. "Just like old times?" Nooj's answering smile was small, but genuine; Maroda looked back and forth between them, brow furrowed, and Beclem took pity on him. "Back when we were in the Crusaders, we always made a point of being around whenever new recruits came in. We'd get a good look, take their measure and decide if any were worth getting to know. We ended up with some good teammates that way."

"I'm pretty happy with our team as it is. But you never know, I guess." Maroda shrugged. "Sure, why not?" They found the stairs down to the docks and made their way down, taking the steps at a leisurely pace. It was a sunny afternoon, and the sound of the waves made Beclem feel almost at home. Maybe he could come to like it in Bevelle after all. If only it had a blitz team.

The stairway made a turn at the lowest landing, right over the place where the ship was pulling into the dock, just a few feet below them. The old Yevonite banner still flew on the mast, and Beclem glowered at it. This was supposed to be a New Yevon. Couldn’t they find a new symbol to match? The ship came to rest, and the sailors jumped overboard, tying ropes and securing the boat in place; a small crowd of about two dozen people were filing onto the deck, already in a line. Beclem turned to see Soren, standing at attention and awaiting his fresh meat. It was so reminiscent of the old days: an official from Crusader Command, pulling sentry duty at Mushroom Rock, while Beclem and Nooj watched at a distance, that Beclem had to smile. Soren glanced up and to the side, noticing them; he raised his hand, and Beclem returned the greeting.

The ship had been secured, and Beclem returned his attention to the crowd, looking for likely candidates and familiar faces. A tall girl with long brown hair -- a little young, but she carried herself well; a pair of former Crusaders who looked vaguely familiar; a woman and a man in Kilika Beasts uniforms, and then--

Beclem sucked in a sharp breath of excitement as a man with red hair emerged from the cabin, then looked straight up in their direction, shading his eyes with a hand. Beclem leaned forward against the rail of the landing, bracing himself with one hand as he waved with the other. "Hey! Luzzu!"

Even at this distance, he could see Luzzu's grin. "Beclem, I wondered if I'd find..." He stopped, words fading as his gaze moved to Beclem's right, the smile fading into a look of wonder. "Nooj?!"

He broke from the pack of recruits, brushing past Soren as he made a beeline for the stairs. Not running, but still taking the steps two at a time, he mounted the landing and stopped right in front of Nooj -- and only then did Beclem remember that, after the disaster in Djose, Luzzu had been reassigned to the Crusader Lodge in his hometown and so had not been with their unit when Nooj returned to duty.

"Nooj." Luzzu's eyes were wide, his jaw slack. "You're... it's really you?"

"It's me," Nooj replied, his voice solemn. He held out his good arm, and Luzzu clasped it tightly. "It's good to see you again."

"And you." Luzzu squeezed Nooj's arm one more time, then let it go to clap Beclem on the shoulder. "Both of you."

"Same here." Beclem found his face breaking into a wild smile, their argument on the steps of Djose Temple far away and unimportant. "What brings you here?"

"I could ask the same question." Luzzu grinned at him. "I guess we have a lot to talk about."

"Yes, but later." Nooj gestured down to Soren, who was looking at them with a puzzled air. "We probably shouldn't steal you away from the CO just yet. Look for us in the mess hall at dinner time. We're on the second shift."

"Sounds good." Luzzu turned to Maroda and tossed off a quick salute. "Luzzu, formerly of the Crusaders, now of Besaid Island."

"Maroda, former guardian, now captain of a team on the Seekers." Maroda returned the salute. "If you'd like to be assigned to our team, I can arrange it. Just let me know."

"Sir." Luzzu saluted again, then took the stairs double-time again to catch up with Soren and the rest.

"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," Nooj said, his tone wry, as they watched him go.

Beclem looked up at Nooj, mouth twisting in a small frown. "Not quite," he said.

Nooj lowered his eyes. "No. I suppose not."

Maroda watched them, curiosity in his eyes, but to Beclem's relief, he didn't ask for details. "I should check in with my brothers. Enjoy your evening off, and let me know what your friend decides, all right?" And he left them there, standing quietly on a balcony filled with memories.

-x-

"And so I needed a purpose." Luzzu finished up the last of his water, setting the glass down on the table and looking back and forth between Nooj and Beclem. "A purpose I wasn't going to find, sitting around and feeling sorry for myself in Besaid. There are too many memories of lost friends there, you know? I didn't want to end up like Yuna, living in the past, or like her guardians who keep trying to pretend the past never happened. There's got to be a middle way out there, and the Seekers might provide one for me."

"I hear you there." Beclem sat back in his chair. "So, will you join our team?"

"If your leader will have me."

"He will." All heads turned to see Maroda, standing behind Beclem's chair, hand on its back. "I've already taken the liberty of requesting you. You'll get the details at muster tomorrow. And then we can get together to plan our strategy for what temples to go to next."

"Raiding the temples." Luzzu's brow furrowed. "Really?"

Maroda acknowledged him with a nod. "The idea does take some getting used to. But once you see some of the spheres we found, you'll understand how important it is to find what's really in there. Yeah, you'll see."

-x-

But in the end, it was some time before they were able to return to their quest. The next morning, a runner came with news of a sphere cache discovered in the Calm Lands, and all hands were dispatched there to aid in the exploration and restoration effort. This was followed by summons to the Mi'ihen Highroad, and then the Moonflow -- a large area of the ancient underwater city had been uncovered by a shift in the riverbed, and it was a race against time to dig through mud and slit to see what spheres and other artifacts might be hiding there. It was exciting and productive, and Beclem found that he didn't mind putting off their mission. Still, when they finally returned to Bevelle six months later it was a relief to gather once again on their old firing range, take target practice, and plan their next move.

"I think we should go to Djose next," Maroda said, setting down his rifle. "Some Al Bhed are negotiating with New Yevon to move in, do some experiments with machina, and I'd like to explore the space before they take it over."

"Hm." Beclem glanced at Luzzu, then Nooj, saw the same disinclination written on both faces. Not a place of happy memories, Djose. "Well, I suppose--"

"I have another idea." Nooj stood up from his seat in the corner. "We don't all need to go to Djose -- that area is safe, and well-contained. And we have fallen some months behind our original schedule. Therefore, I propose we split up: half to go to Djose, while some of us remain here and explore the Bevelle Cloister. That has not yet been visited, correct?"

"Right," said Maroda. "Far as I know, anyway. Most of the others are still superstitious about going into the inner temples, so no one else got in there while we were gone. Sounds like a good plan. Nooj, since it was your idea, why don't you stay? I guess you'll want Beclem and Luzzu; anyone else?"

Lucil looked at Elma, who indicated her agreement. "Three teams. Maroda, you and the others go to Djose, and Elma and I will return to Kilika. I've been meaning to check in on the rebuilding effort anyway. Going by ship, it should take no longer than your journey to Djose and back, and Nooj's team will have more than enough time to make a thorough exploration of Bevelle and the areas beneath."

Maroda shrugged. "All right. Sounds like a plan. Everyone who's traveling, be ready to leave first thing tomorrow."

-x-

The next day dawned sunny and bright, but not two hours after the rest of the team left Bevelle, the clouds blew in and the skies opened. The storm lasted five days: five days of pouring rains and howling wind, during which the masters of Bevelle judged that the city's underground, too far beneath the water table, was vulnerable to flooding and therefore unsafe for exploration. Nooj seemed content to hole up in the library and read up on the temple's history, but Beclem lost patience within an afternoon. He and Luzzu took the time to explore first the upper reaches of the temple, then the town, meeting up with Nooj each night at dinner to discuss their finds.

Finally, on the morning of the sixth day, Beclem woke to a blessed sound: silence. Sitting up in his bunk, then sliding to the floor, he first went to the window to check, then knelt by first Nooj's bed, then Luzzu's to shake them both awake. "Rain's stopped."

Nooj raised a bleary eyebrow at him. "Can a man at least eat breakfast first?"

"Yeah, sorry." Beclem sat down on the floor between their bunks, legs crossed. "I'm just so ready to get moving again."

"It's all right." Nooj raised himself to a sitting position. "I expect they haven't opened up the official entryway to the basement yet, though. How do you propose we get in?"

"There's a passage off the docks." Luzzu sat up with a yawn. "When Yuna told me the story of her escape from Seymour, she said there was a secret entrance down there that the fayth showed her. I think I can find it."

"Good." Nooj carefully lifted himself out of bed. "Now, about that breakfast."

After they had eaten, the trio made their way through the old complex, to the stairs off the Highbridge that lead down to the docks. Luzzu stopped and turned around, shading his eyes as he stared up at the temple spire. "This is the area, I think, if it's like she said." He pointed to a small wooden door. "Maybe that one?"

Nooj was first to move, taking his careful steps around the piles of crates. He pulled on the door, twisted the handle. "Hmm."

Beclem craned around Nooj's shoulder to take a look at the handle. "Locked?"

"I don't think so." Nooj turned the handle again, pushing this time, and the door moved inward with a creak. "Aha." He leaned into the door, and finally it swung open. Nooj stepped into the darkness; Luzzu followed, and Beclem brought up the rear, closing the door behind them.

Together they walked through the dimness, barely lit by a few sputtering machina sconces on the walls. It reminded Beclem of spheres he had seen of the Via Purifico, the ancient prison, and he shivered. After a few moments, they found themselves at an intersection. One direction led to a heavy metal door; the other stretched into the distance, where some brighter lights could be seen.

"Maybe the cloister is behind the door," Luzzu said.

"Perhaps not." Nooj glanced at the door, then down the longer corridor. "The other direction seems more likely, given the temple layout."

"Let's check it out." Beclem turned left, and the others followed. Soon they emerged into another hallway, but a hallway unlike any Beclem had ever seen. The wall sconces had been replaced with round and rectangular lights, set into the walls. Banners of Yevon hung from the high ceilings, and the floor was covered with a woven carpet, the glyphs of the temples worked into the muted colors.

"How long has this been here?" Luzzu stepped forward and leaned close to one of the round lights, frowning. "Looks pretty good for being a thousand years old."

Beclem let out a sarcastic laugh. "How naïve are you? Isn't it pretty obvious by now? Bevelle didn't stop using machina after the war. They just never shared it with the populace."

"I suppose." Luzzu tapped the light with his fingertip, listened to the thump of glass. "I wish it were harder to believe."

"Let's keep moving." Nooj continued down the hallway; for several long minutes they walked, and as the corridor yawned into the distance, unchanging, Beclem started to think about turning back. Then they rounded a corner, and the corridor opened up into a large round room with grates on the floor, an eerie mist coming up from the sides. A figure stood in the center of the room, a man clad in green; as they approached, Beclem recognized him as Baralai, the researcher who had helped them plan the Zanarkand expedition.

"My apologies," he said, stepping forward, hands held behind him. "But this area of the temple complex is off limits."

"Is it now." Nooj crossed the room, turning to meet him face to face. "I thought the era of secret-keeping in Bevelle was over."

"The issue is not secrets, but safety." Baralai looked past Nooj to Beclem, then Luzzu. "Some of the older areas of the temple have fallen into severe disrepair. With the additional risk of flooding after this week's storm, I'm afraid we cannot risk allowing anyone to pass."

Nooj's answering snort fairly dripped with derision. "A likely story."

Baralai's gaze fell back on Nooj, and he raised his shoulders in a shrug. "Believe me or not, as you will. Nevertheless, you may not continue."

Pulled himself to his full height, Nooj looked down at Baralai, eyebrows raised. "And who's going to stop me? You?"

"If I must." Baralai looked back at him; despite their outward calm, a hostile energy crackled between the two men. Beclem remembered that day to the library, when Nooj had disappeared immediately after hearing Baralai's name. Some history must lie there, but what?

Baralai shifted, and then Beclem noticed Baralai's weapon, a staff half-hidden behind his back. Was Baralai actually prepared to attack? Beclem decided that he'd rather not find out the hard way, and he stepped forward.

"Hey." He lightly tugged at Nooj's sleeve; Nooj jerked his hand away, but as he looked at Beclem, his expression became less forbidding. "It's not worth this much trouble. Let's just go back to our plan to search the Cloister of Trials."

Nooj looked back down the hall, over Baralai's head; an odd look pulled at his features, then disappeared. "You're right. It's not worth a fight." He turned his back on Baralai and began going back down the corridor.

After ensuring that Baralai had relaxed his battle stance, Beclem turned to go himself, meeting Luzzu's eyes; Luzzu raised his eyebrows and mouthed a single word: "What?"

Beclem shrugged his head and kept going, a few steps behind Nooj, and Luzzu fell in at his side. At the turn, Beclem glanced back over his shoulder, to see Baralai still standing in the center of the room, staff's end resting on the ground at his side, his face still devoid of expression. Yet another puzzle, but not one Beclem was likely to solve today. He faced forward again, his mind turning to the task before them.

They made short work of the Cloister of Trials, which was different from any place Beclem could even have imagined -- the walkways floated several stories above the floor, and they were made of an odd glass-like material rather than stone, shot through with colored tubes that probably once glowed with light. It was even more machina-laden than Zanarkand, although most of the mechanical aspects no longer worked without the fayth to power them. It was, perhaps, the most damning evidence Beclem had yet seen of Yevon's use of machina, and he wondered why no summoner had ever exposed the truth. Slaves to Yevon, every last one of them.

At the end, Beclem counted their haul: two Bevelle spheres and the destruction sphere, glowing a soft purple. The glyph sphere appeared to be lost, along with any others, perhaps down that chasm that was no longer passable. At the end of the trials, there were two doorways; the one on the right was locked tight, as were all the entrances to the Chambers of the Fayth, but the other was open, and Beclem passed through first, one sphere in his hand and the others in his pouch. He found himself in what looked like a study: a desk up against the bookshelf-lined wall, covered half with texts and half with unlabeled spheres. Most of the spheres appeared to be cracked or otherwise in disrepair -- chunks missing, some even splintered into shards. Beclem walked forward to the desk and noted the handwriting on the papers stacked there. "These are Trema's," he said, straightening, turning to face his comrades.

"Odd, that so many broken spheres would have found their way here." Luzzu stepped closer to the nearest shelf, and Nooj followed. "Do you think he is repairing them, or--"

"No." Nooj's voice was low, hollow, a whisper of shock and surprise and anger. "No. Look."

Beclem walked to Nooj's side, a mounting horror growing as he recognized the half-sphere that Nooj held in his hand. Its brilliant white glow had been reduced to a wan sputter, the symbol it cast on the wall only a half a scrawl now, but Beclem still knew it immediately -- it was one of the spheres he and Maroda had rescued from the Cloister of Trials in Macalania, a sphere that had been in pristine condition when they had first found it. "I don't believe it!"

"Why not?" Nooj's voice had recovered its strength, frosty with controlled rage. "Do you really think that Trema, a man of Yevon, is incapable of destroying priceless artifacts to preserve the secrets of history?"

"I cannot deny your charge."

Beclem whirled on his heel, his hand tightening protectively around the Bevelle sphere he still carried. Trema was there, standing in the doorway, hands held behind his back, and for a moment Beclem wondered if he, like Baralai, was hiding a weapon. But then Trema stepped forward and spread his arms wide, showing them empty.

Nooj lowered his head and turned a fierce glare on Trema. "What is the meaning of this?"

Trema buried his hands in his sleeves. "Did you really believe that we were collecting the spheres to save them? To create a library of knowledge accessible to anyone who might want to look at it?" He shook his head. "The lesson of Yevon is this: clinging to the past is dangerous. Better that we forget history, wipe the slate clean, begin anew."

It was like a slap across the face, and yet with the shock came clarity: he should have known. They all should have known. The realization was like the silence after a thundaga spell, and as it rang in Beclem's ears, he backed away, shaking his head. "Just like a Yevonite," he said. "Learning the lesson that will be of the greatest advantage to you, to Yevon. This is no New Yevon. It's as bad as the old one. Worse." He gritted his teeth. "You're wrong, and we’re going to stop you."

"Who will stop me?" Trema spread his arms again, encompassing the whole of the room, littered with fragments and sphere dust. "You cannot simply go upstairs and tell the truth. They will not believe. After the work they have done to gather these spheres, they will not want to believe."

"Won't they?" Nooj gripped the head of his cane so hard that Beclem heard the finger joints creak. "Wrong, old man. The question you should be asking yourself now is whether you can stop me. Me, and the others like me: the Crusaders betrayed by Yevon. Betrayed at Operation Mi'ihen, betrayed in the Crimson Squad training, betrayed by a thousand years of lies. Let it be known that history will remember today as the day that the youth of Spira rose up against their elders, the elders who would have led them back into darkness and deceit." He swept several of the cracked and broken spheres into his pack, and then he walked past Trema and out the door. Beclem did not even spare a glance for Trema as he followed.

Together, the three of them walked out of the dark room. In silence they made their way through the twisting, dark corridors of St. Bevelle; when they emerged into a sunlit courtyard, Beclem had to shade his eyes and look away, blinking to clear them. Then he looked at his companions: Luzzu, drawn and pale, Nooj with a thundercloud on his brow. "We have to tell them."

"Yes." Nooj drew his head down in a single sharp nod. "When are Lucil and Maroda due to return?"

"Today or tomorrow." Beclem leaned over the wall and down to the docks. "Yeah, see, there's the Meeru."

Nooj let out a sharp puff of air. "Good. Shall we go to the common room?"

Beclem started after Nooj, but after a few steps he noticed that Luzzu wasn't with them. He turned around. "Luzzu? You coming?"

Luzzu hadn't moved; he stood, still, in the center of the courtyard, his eyes focused off in the distance. Then he looked straight at Beclem and shook his head. "I'm not ready for this. Big upheavals, changes to the social order... I've had enough of them. I wish you best of luck in whatever you're planning, but I don't think I can be a part of it."

"But..."

Nooj cast Beclem a sharp glance. "It's his decision, Beclem. Come on, we need to gather the team before Trema gets to them."

Beclem looked at Luzzu, then Nooj. "All right." He followed Nooj and left Luzzu standing alone as the sun set behind them.

-x-

The silence in the common room was total.

Lucil stood in a corner, her head in her hands, and Elma rested a hand on her back. Maroda paced around the table, changing directions every few moments. Isaaru sat on the couch, his fingers curving tenderly around the cracked Macalania sphere, his face white in its pale light.

It was Lucil who finally spoke, a edge of tears in her voice. "I should never have convinced you to come."

Nooj shook his head as he rose from his seat, the wooden chair creaking. "To the contrary. It is good that we were here to discover Trema's villainy. Imagine how much more of Spira's past might have been lost if we had not?"

"Nooj is right." Elma patted Lucil's shoulder one more time, then dropped her hand. "And even if he weren't, no good blaming yourself."

"Agreed." Nooj looked around the room, his gaze hard. "Yevon is to blame. We should have known that a thousand years of secrecy and corruption would not be overcome in a matter of months. It is time for us to create a real alternative to the poison of Bevelle."

"Yes." Beclem sat up straighter in his seat, a vision of the way forward unfolding in his mind. "Everything I see, everything I know, tells me that Spira needs a leader. A real leader. And if it's not going to be Yuna, and it's not going to be what's left of Yevon..." He paused and looked around the room, at the faces of his comrades, falling last on Nooj. "Then it has to be us. Well, not us. You." On this last word he lifted his hand, and pointed at the man he faced.

Nooj raised his eyebrows. "Me?"

"Who else?" Beclem rose slowly from his chair and walked across the room to Nooj. "You're the greatest natural leader I know. We followed you in the Crusaders, we followed you in Kilika, and how many people followed you here? You can do it, Nooj. You may be the only person who can."

"He's right," Elma said.

"I..." Nooj's mouth clamped shut, and he looked around the room again. "You all believe this?"

Beclem caught their eyes in turn: Elma, Lucil, Maroda. They all indicated their agreement; only Isaaru looked away. He returned his attention to Nooj and shrugged. "See, Nooj," he said. "They all agree with me."

Nooj pulled off his glasses, looking down as he polished them on the hem of his tunic. Then he looked back up, perching the spectacles back on his nose. "If I must. If it the only way to move Spira forward and root out the cancer of Yevon and secrecy forever? Then I will do it. But I cannot do it alone." He took a halting step forward. "Will you join me? I give you tonight to decide. If you wish to help me, be ready to leave from the mess hall, tomorrow at breakfast."

With a quick glance at Beclem, he left the room, toward their bunks. Beclem looked to Maroda, but he was already deep in conversation with Isaaru, the brothers exchanging words in soft but heated tones. He caught Lucil's eye; she exchanged a side glance with Elma and then, lifting a hand to her heart in near-salute, gave him a swift smile. She and Elma were with them. Flashing her a thumbs-up, he turned to catch up with Nooj.

The barracks were empty; Beclem was not surprised to find Nooj in the courtyard instead, staring up at the sky, hand opening and closing on his cane, the joints creaking softly. Beclem walked up beside him and looked up as well. A few stars were visible, but the moon was bright and the clouds were blowing in, off the sea. The breeze was chilly, and Beclem suppressed a shiver.

Nooj did not look down, but Beclem heard the shift of his shoulders. "Do you really believe I can do it?"

"I know you can," Beclem replied without hesitation. "And you know it, too, if you let yourself."

Nooj's answering sigh was loud in Beclem's ears. "Very well. I will go to the docks and secure us a ship. Then, tomorrow at breakfast, here is what I will need you to do..."

-x-

The next morning dawned cold, the edge of another approaching storm sharp in the air. Beclem dressed and packed quickly, noticing as he did so that Nooj's bag was already gone, his bed neatly made. Had Nooj even slept the night before? Beclem suspected not.

He hoisted his bag to his shoulder, then saw Maroda standing in the doorway to the mess hall, his own sack in hand. Maroda raised a hand in greeting, and Beclem crossed the room to him. "No Isaaru?"

Maroda grunted. "I don't want to talk about it," he said. "Let's just go." He turned on his heel, leaving Beclem to follow. In silence they walked into the mess hall, to the table where Elma, Lucil, and most of the rest of Maroda's team waited, all but the two former warrior monks. Maroda looked around at them, frowning. "Where's Nooj?"

"Over there." Elma's response was hushed as she pointed across the room, to the place where Nooj sat in a chair near the main exit to the docks. "Looks like he's going to make an announcement."

No sooner had she spoken the words than Nooj was rising from his chair, its feet scraping against the floor, and he tapped the point of his cane on the flagstones. "My friends!" he called out, his voice cutting through the chatter of the Seekers as they settled down to their breakfast, chatter that sputtered and faded in surprise at his words. They turned in their seats, paused in their line, and every eye in the room fell upon him.

"My friends," he repeated. "I am here to tell you the truth, the truth of our purpose here, and of Trema's true vision for New Yevon and the Seekers. He has gathered us all here by promising us a new Yevon and a new Spira, a haven of knowledge and truth about our land's history. But it has all been a lie!" He reached into the satchel on the table next to him and pulled out the broken Macalania sphere. "We have found Trema's goal: a room full of spheres just like this one, broken, destroyed, desecrated! We have not been gathering spheres to preserve them and spread the truths they contain. Trema has taken these spheres to himself and ensured their destruction!"

A gasp rippled through the room, and Nooj nodded grimly. "Yes. Trema is using you, just as Yevon used you. Just as Yevon used us all as pawns in schemes like Operation Mi'ihen, throwing us up against the shoals of Sin in a futile battle against Spira's past. We are nothing more to him than tools to achieve his dream of domination!"

The murmurs returned, an undercurrent of harsh whispering as Nooj paused, giving his audience a moment to digest his statements. Beclem leaned forward to gauge the reaction. The expressions in the room ran the gamut from anger to shock to disbelief -- and a few knowing looks, mostly from former priests and others among the research staff. It appeared that this piece of information had not come as a surprise to everyone.

"But no more!" Nooj tapped his cane against the floor again, harder this time, the dull thud echoing through the room. "No more. Spira has been ruled by the ancients and the dead for too long, miring us all in the muck of the past. We will end the era of secrets, and we will take Spira back for the people! For the young people. Are you with me?" He looked around, his eyes glittering with hard hope, meeting their gazes, seeking those who seemed to agree, finding more faces open than closed. "Then join me. There is a ship waiting on the docks for anyone who wants to break free of this place, of the chains of Bevelle!"

"That's our cue," Beclem muttered to Elma, seated on his right, and he jumped to his feet. "Crusaders!" he shouted. "Warrior monks, priests, acolytes, citizens! Anyone who cares about their freedom and our future, follow me!" He hoisted his pack to his shoulder and strode across the room to Nooj. All around him, he could see other people stirring, standing up, some with purpose and others in confusion, the murmurs growing louder and blooming into shouts of anger and excitement. A tall, thin warrior monk made a half-hearted attempt to bar the doorway, but Beclem pushed him aside without hesitation, then stepped into the hallway. He was some distance away from the mess hall, almost to the exit from the temple to the dock before he dared glanced over the shoulder. To his relief, dozens of people followed in his wake -- mostly former Crusaders, he thought, although it would take a closer inspection on the ship to be sure.

Once clear of the temple, he stopped and looked around him. Of the fifty or so people in the mess hall, at least half of them were gathered. Nooj brought up the rear, his head held high. He cupped his hand around his mouth and shouted over the crowd. "Beclem! Make for the Meeru! We leave as soon as everyone is aboard."

Beclem responded with a thumbs-up gesture, then resumed the march toward the docks. Every moment more people were joining them as the news spread throughout the temple. The gangplank of the Meeru was already down, waiting for them, two armed guards on either side. Beclem mounted the walkway and saluted the captain, the same man who had led their excursion to Zanarkand. "You joining us?"

"Wouldn't miss it," the man replied, making a salute in return. "Nooj has his first ship, but I'm sure it won't be his last."

"Definitely." Beclem walked to the bow, back to Bevelle, eyes on the open sea, his new teammates crowding onto the ship behind him. A few moments later, Nooj appeared at his side and looked down with a half smile.

"Ready to face the future?" he asked.

Beclem saluted him with a grin. "You got it."

Nooj smiled back, then raised his voice. "Weigh anchor!" With a creak, the ship pulled away from the dock, and Beclem faced into the wind, closing his eyes as his path finally aligned in its true direction.


	6. Epilogue - Mushroom Rock Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beclem, Nooj, and some notes for the new life.

When he opened his eyes, Beclem's first reaction was a sense of disorientation -- striped canvas overhead in an unfamiliar white-and-gold striped pattern, hard earth under his back, the whistles of heavy breathing around him, the low rumble of a crashing ocean in the distance. This was not Bevelle; not Kilika; not the dig site on the Calm Lands. He stretched, his toes popping out the end of a too-small bedroll into the chilly air, and with the cold came memories: Bevelle temple, the destroyed spheres, the march out of the mess hall, following Nooj into the new life.

He sat up then, blinking in the dim early light, counting heads -- yes, everyone was still here, all of the Seekers and Crusaders who had come with them from Bevelle, and the others who were arriving every day. They would have to find another name now, he supposed, one that broke from their past of betrayals. Something to wipe the slate clean. Dozens of people, men and women dedicated to the cause of truth and freedom.

With that thought, Beclem slid out of his bedroll and stood, tiptoeing out of the tent to find the man he did not see, the architect of their changed reality: Nooj. Emerging, he wrapped his jacket over his shoulders against the chill and walked to the cliff face where he thought Nooj might be waiting. After a conference held in whispers, he and Nooj had directed their escaping ship here, to the bluff at the end of Mushroom Rock Road, the former command center for Operation Mi'ihen. Lucil had objected, but neither had she been able to come up with a better, more central place to set up their new camp. For Beclem, it had been simple symmetry, reclaiming the ground Yevon would have ceded; Nooj seemed faintly astonished that she might want to create a headquarters elsewhere. "It is where I-- we-- belong," he had said, and when he spoke in that tone, it was impossible to argue.

And so they had arrived, and taken over the platform where the Maesters had commanded the Operation as the place to pitch their tents. Construction on a more permanent headquarters had already begun, and Nooj was discussing plans for Lucil to head up a delegation to redouble the effort to rebuild Kilika. "It has been neglected for too long, and perhaps we can convince New Yevon's carpenters to join our cause, as well." He was leaving with them later today, in hopes of inspiring more recruits, while Beclem and Maroda stayed at Mushroom Rock to supervise the headquarters and begin setting plans in motion to recover as many spheres as possible.

"Back to Zanarkand, I think, before the Al Bhed can get any more traction there," Maroda had said at dinner the night before. "And maybe we can sneak some agents into Bevelle, people who didn't walk out with us."

"That could work," Beclem had agreed, leaning back on his hands, away from the fire. "And maybe we could put the word out, too, that if people bring us spheres, we'll reward them. We've dug up a fair amount of other kinds of treasure on our sphere hunts -- people who don't care about spheres for their own sake might be more likely to bring them here if we have valuables to trade."

Nooj had agreed, and so here they were, ready to move on to the next step. Or-- almost ready, Beclem thought, looking at the set of Nooj's shoulders as he stared out to sea. Probably no one else would have seen it, but Beclem thought he detected a smidge of doubt in the tension there. After a pause, Beclem took the last few steps to join him.

"So," he said.

"So." Nooj balanced the cane in front of him, its tip resting on the very edge of the bluff, a trickle of earth running down its face as the cane thumped into place. "Thank you for taking charge of the sphere hunt. Before I leave, I have a favor to ask, a favor you must speak of to none other." He glanced at his right hand and then Beclem noticed the sphere he held, softly glowing in the morning sun. It had an odd reddish cast, duller than the fiery Kilika spheres. "If anyone finds a sphere like this one, set it aside for me. Show it to no one; just save it for my return."

He brought his arm across his body, and Beclem took the sphere from him, holding it to the sky to better check its color. "I suppose it would be too much to ask why."

"Yes." Nooj's voice was low, and dangerous. "I-- when I can tell you, I will. But not yet. You will have to trust me. Can you do that?"

"Of course." Beclem stuck the sphere in his pocket, resolving not to watch, despite the temptation. "You wouldn't keep a secret from me without good reason."

Nooj let out a breath. "I shall work to remain worthy of your loyalty, and your friendship." He turned then, to face Beclem fully. "For all you have done this past year, 'thank you' seems inadequate, but I have to wonder: why? When you could have stayed in Luca, or returned to reclaim your life at any time, why did you follow me instead?"

Beclem shrugged. "If anyone can take the mess that's left of this world, wrest it away from Bevelle, and whip it back into shape, it's you. And I can best serve Spira by helping you do it."

"In that case, how can I refuse?" Nooj lowered his chin, and Beclem caught a glint of... something. Satisfaction? No, just the reflection of the rising sun off his spectacles. Nooj looked up again, and he raised his arm in salute. "Carry on, soldier."

"Carrying on, sir." Beclem returned the salute and then turned back to the sea as Nooj walked away, uneven footsteps crunching on gravel, the rays of a new sun dazzling his eyes with their promise of the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the story that took me five years to write, in fits and starts, with moments of glory as well as plenty of sweat and tears, but now it's finally done. Many, many thanks to my old friend Yuna Flowering, wherever she is now, for planting the bunny that became this story. And to everyone who's read from the beginning or who's come in along the way, even with sometimes multi-year waits between chapters, and of course to my long-suffering beta, Renay, who helped me make the story so much more than what I had first envisioned. Thank you all, and I hope you enjoyed the ride.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Pilgrim](https://archiveofourown.org/works/652100) by [owlmoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlmoose/pseuds/owlmoose)




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